Breathe
by Charlie4short
Summary: Tag to 5.16 "Dark Side Of The Moon" "You ran away on my watch. I looked everywhere for you. I thought you were dead! And then when Dad came home…." Hurt/whump/limp/smut Dean; abusive/limp John; awesome Bobby; Succubi. Pre-series, spring 2001. Exploring the dynamics of abuse. M for graphic violence, sexual content (Ch 15), rape/non-con (Ch 20), and swearing. Triggers everywhere.
1. Chapter 1

**BREATHE**

* * *

Tag to 5.16 "Dark Side Of The Moon"

"You ran away on my watch. I looked everywhere for you. I thought you were dead! And then when Dad came home…."

 _Leave, but don't leave me…._

* * *

 **CHAPTER ONE**

* * *

In the confines of the strung-out motel room, John Winchester's rage was a palpable force, and Dean took an involuntary step back, covering the act by moving to the table. He rested his palms on the pages spread out there. "I looked all over town, got the cops to let me take a crack at their traffic cam footage-" Dean's heart was the drum line, setting the tempo, and his tongue almost tripped over itself trying to keep up-"nothin' there and he's not answering his phone but after I talked to everyone I could find around here that knew him and every hunter Sam knew I got someone to triangulate his phone and he might be in Arizona but his phone hasn't moved…."

He choked to a stop, throat suddenly dry on the implication of that. A phone carried by a living body didn't just stop moving.

Dean had kept his eyes and hands on the evidence of his efforts at locating his wayward brother, using his peripheral vision to track the malevolent force that was his father.

He'd been hunting monsters his entire life, and nothing, absolutely _nothing_ , terrified him more than the utterly silent being who was now standing so close that Dean could feel the man's heat.

"He took his bag," John's voice rumbled, deceptively calm.

"Yeah," Dean grunted, and felt a low tremble germinate in his gut.

"Stole a car. Ran away."

"Yeah," Dean whispered, and the tremble developed into a quake.

"And where were _you_?"

The quaking broke through the surface. John was close enough to feel it, and Dean knew that it gave him away, that even if he never spoke again, his father would know that the guilt and the blame rested solely on Dean's treacherously quavering shoulders.

But to refuse to answer constituted insubordination. "I-I was...busy," Dean ground out, fighting to keep his voice strong.

"Getting laid?" It was more of an accusation than a query.

As suddenly as it had begun, the trembling ceased. Dean hung his head, shoulders limp. "Yes."

The force that was John Winchester exploded, spinning Dean around to land a blow to the younger man's jaw, pulling him off of the table to throw him into the wall, pinning Dean with one hand while he buried his fist in his son's stomach before throwing him to the ground, steel toes of his boots raising a nearly satisfying grunt of pain from the object of his blind rage as bone gave way beneath the impact.

"You put some diseased whore, some slut with no standards, above your own _brother_?"

Dean curled in on himself, arms wrapped over his head, knees pulled tightly to his chest. John side-stepped behind him, lashing out with his boot at an unprotected kidney, and Dean arched his back in pain.

John dug his fingers into his older son's hair, yanking the boy's head up, shaking it to emphasize his words. "You think a blow job is worth more than your brother's _life_?"

With his right hand occupied, the left now took the opportunity to leave its own mark on the recumbent man's face.

Dean's eyes were glassy, his father's words barely registering as he fought to stay conscious through the agony spreading out from his lower back.

His head was released violently, and he rolled to his stomach, forehead pressed against coarse carpeting, struggling to breathe.

Dean believed that it was over. Thought he'd push himself slowly to his feet, stagger to the bathroom, piss blood, wash his face, then go out to find his dad sitting in the driver's seat of the Impala, waiting for him so they could go get Sam. Together.

When Dean heard the unmistakable sound of a belt being unbuckled, of leather sliding along denim, he almost vomited.

"No," he whispered, the sound of his shame and desperation dissipating into the feculent carpeting beneath him.

"Get up," his father growled, and Dean's heart stuttered in his chest.

"Dad...I'm sorry." _Please, Dad. Please!_

"You either get up and take what's coming to you or get the _fuck_ out."

Tears scorched his throat and Dean swallowed convulsively as his life spiraled out of control in the length of that one sentence.

Without Sam he was nothing.

Without Sam _and_ his father, he was less than nothing.

There really was no choice.

He bit back a gasp as the act of getting to his feet caused a sickening bone-on-bone grinding of fractured ribs.

He stood, one hand on the back of a chair for support, swaying slightly.

Waiting.

"You know the drill," that gravelly voice reminded him. "Strip."

From across the room Dean watched himself comply, shaking fingers making slow work of the buttons on his flannel, face pinching in sudden anguish as he raised his arms to remove his t-shirt, eyes downcast as he stood, bare-chested, praying that this would be enough.

Dark bruises were already visible on his pale skin.

"I said 'Strip'. Don't make me do it for you."

Abruptly Dean was back in his own body, the visceral memory of the last time his father had said that to him saturating him like ice water.

Gooseflesh stood out on his arms, his torso.

He fumbled with his belt, fingers thick, uncoordinated.

"Get your boots off first, dumb-ass." The contempt in the man's voice struck Dean like a blow, and he doubled over, humiliation stealing his wind.

He staggered, falling against the wall, and leaned there while he fought with his laces.

Time stretched out impossibly long, Dean's normally agile mind struggling with the dual tasks of measuring his father's impatience while doing his best to comply with man's demands.

Finally he found himself staring, slack-jawed, at his socks.

"Dean!" That voice boomed, and the man it named raised his eyes, startled. "I said 'Strip.' Last chance."

The menace jolted him, and Dean straightened, turning towards the wall behind him. His mind was blank as he forced denim and soft black cotton over his hips, down his thighs, releasing them to drop of their own accord until they caught at his ankles.

"Hands on your head," the voice commanded, and it may as well have been God himself, holding Dean's soul in the palm of his hand.

Dean complied, damaged muscles protesting.

He cringed at the sound of the table crashing into the cabinet, making way for John Winchester's rage.

There was no lecture, no reiteration of all of Dean's shortcomings, nothing at all to herald the approach of the storm that broke over the young man's already battered flesh.

It was fire. It was ice. Wendigo's claws, vampire's teeth, the invisible crush of a vengeful spirit...the only sounds belt striking flesh and breath hissing out of each man in a steady rhythm as the exertion of striking resonated against the agony of being struck.

A part of Dean was distantly aware that his father was using the buckle-end of his belt, that the metal was tearing his flesh, and the warm liquid he felt on his skin could only be blood.

In this moment, John was barely human, but Dean knew that in spite of this, he had to endure, to complete this act of contrition, to allow the father to wipe his son's sins away so that Dean could earn his way back into his idol's good graces.

At least for as long as it took for Dean to disappoint the man as he always did, trapped in this cycle of failure and redemption, shame and pride.

Hatred and veneration.

There was a pause in the hell storm as John Winchester crossed from Dean's left to his right, shifting the belt from one hand to the other, shaking out his fatigued arm.

Dean leaned his forehead against the wall. _Why are walls always so cool, even when the room is hot?_

He held onto that, cool and hot, focusing on the flesh that had been marked by his father. _Is it hot, or is it very, very cold? What does hot feel like? And cold? If that were a blade made out of ice, would it burn?_

The blows resumed then, fueled by rage, as rhythmic as a metronome.

Groans had become the counterpoint to the striker's hisses, but all Dean was aware of was the cool wall pressing in against him, so smooth and soft against his cheek and chest, but somehow hard and rough against his knees.

"Get up!" the god commanded, and only then did Dean realize that it wasn't the wall against his knees, it was the traitorous ground-

And suddenly he was on his side, right shoulder supported by the kind wall, left temple against the floor, bile flowing with lazy ease from his slack jaw.

* * *

John stepped back, homicidal rage seeping out of him as he took in Dean's limp form.

Limp... and bloody.

Two memories vied for control of John's consciousness: Dean, face down on a bed, limp and bloody after a wendigo attack; and Dean, face down on a bed, limp and bloody after the last time John had used his belt on the boy.

As before, the ensanguined leather slid from his hand, buckle striking the floor with an audible "thump".

John's knees followed as his hands rose to his face in horror.

"Dean…" he choked out, the word a prayer, a plea.

He crawled across the floor, fingers sliding desperately into sweat-slicked hair, following the curve of the skull to the sharp angle of his son's jaw, digging in greedily to the tender flesh there.

"Please, Dean, _please_ ," unaware of the irony in that, not guessing that his son had sent a similar, but unspoken plea just before the boy's sanity left to seek refuge in a less hostile plane.

The pulse was rapid. Maybe a bit weaker than normal, but John had never had a reason to seek out this validation of life when the vessel it represented was 'normal'.

John sat back on his heels, one hand clasped desperately to that thready pulse, the other pressed in equal desperation to his own face.

"Jesus. _Mary_. I'm sorry. I'm so, so sorry."

And the god-like hunter -broken, _repentant-_ sobbed in a way that his battered son had not.


	2. Chapter 2

**BREATHE: CHAPTER 2**

* * *

John hadn't felt this utterly shattered since the night Mary died.

"No," he corrected himself, "sin-since the day _after_. Waking up wi' two lil' kids. No home. No _wife_." He sniffled loudly, rubbed his sleeve across the skin between his lip and nose, and tipped whiskey down his throat. "Tha's when i' really hit."

He lifted the bottle, toasting himself solemnly for his honesty, and drank.

He held the last mouthful of whiskey, savoring the flavor and the burn as he stared, bleary-eyed, at his son.

The form under the blankets hadn't moved. Not while John fell apart beside him, bawling like a toddler who just had his favorite toy stolen. Not while the caring father in John broke through the guilt and despair long enough to wipe up the vomit pooling beneath his son's face, or when he lifted Dean's head to slide a pillow under it, nor when he piled every blanket he could find over the boy, hiding from sight the evidence of his own brutality.

Of his failure.

"Shtartin' t' worry me, kid," he slurred, but the bottle of Jack was empty, and somehow John's body had turned to lead. _Not stone_ , he thought. _Not that cold_.

"He'll wake up purty shoon," John reassured himself. He absent mindedly raised the bottle to his lips, frowning when he found it empty. " _Fuck_."

It took an immense amount of effort to push himself up from the chair, but he managed it, then stood swaying, one hand pressing into the counter of the room's kitchenette, the empty bottle dangling, forgotten, from the other.

John dropped his chin to his chest, closing his eyes against the spinning in his head. When it stopped, he looked around him, trying to remember what he was doing.

He noticed the whiskey bottle in his fist, smiled, raised it to his lips, and frowned. "Oh, yeah," he mumbled, dropping the now offensive object into the sink, " 's gettin' a beer."

The counter supported his drunken efforts to make his way to the small refrigerator.

He squinted against harsh white light to examine the contents, finally grunting in disgust as he removed a water bottle. He held it close to his face, examining it with a scowl. "Oughta be vodka," he mumbled.

He nearly fell attempting to twist the cap off the bottle, and had to lean his hips against the counter. He drained the container, grimacing as he swiped a sleeve across his wet mouth.

His eyes were drawn to his son's unmoving form, and tears misted his vision. He lurched back to the fridge, nearly falling when he jerked the door open.

He bent, swaying, to extract a new bottle. "Jus' water," he explained to no one at all. " 's all we got lef' in here. Jus' water."

He staggered backwards for two steps before he managed to force his body forward, intent on reaching Dean.

Somehow he kept veering to the right, and no amount of fierce grimacing nor irritated growling could correct his trajectory.

So focused was he on his task that he grunted in surprise as his lower limbs struck the edge of one of the beds, knocking his feet from beneath him and tipping him onto it.

The water bottle fell from his hand, rolling across the floor until it came to rest against the shrouded form he had been so determined to reach.

The mattress seemed to wrap around him, and John made a half-hearted attempt at shaking it off before succumbing to the sensory lullaby and sliding into alcohol-poisoned sleep.

* * *

He awoke to a headache. Thankfully not the bounced-off-a-wall-by-an-angry-ghost kind; this was more irritating than painful.

He sat up, feeling the tilt and shift of reality that meant he wasn't sober yet. Not stuporously drunk, but most definitely far from sober.

John rubbed a hand over his face, grimacing at the combined discomforts of stubble and a chalky mouth.

There seemed to be an impossibly long stretch of stained carpeting between himself and the kitchenette.

A pile of blankets lay in a half-circle on the floor, and John squinted at them. "Dean," he rasped, memory blinding him, and struggled to get to his feet.

A widened stance wasn't quite enough to compensate for his absent equilibrium, and he found himself sitting heavily on the bed. He waited a minute, elbows on his knees, palms cradling his face, before trying again. This time he managed to stay up, but made the involuntary discovery that it helped to walk.

His bladder suggested that they amble over to the bathroom, and John agreed.

He fell against the door, only then realizing that the sound he'd been ignoring was running water.

"Mus' be takin' a shower," he informed himself, waving a limp hand towards the blankets formerly occupied by his son.

John pressed his forehead into the crack where door met frame. "Dean," he called, but his voice refused to rise, and he knew he hadn't been heard. He fumbled with the doorknob, nearly falling into the small space as the handle unexpectedly turned under his hand.

He'd assumed it would be locked.

He slid along the wall until he was able to snag the shower curtain. "Dean," he rasped, "you need some-"

His vocal folds locked at the sight of his son flinching away from him, pressing one discolored shoulder into the corner while raising the other protectively to an equally colorful cheek.

The eye closest to John - Dean's right - was swollen nearly shut.

John was not aware that his mouth hung open as the fog draped over his brain abruptly lifted, gaze taking in Dean's injuries, the hunter in him automatically cataloging in preparation for administering aide.

The black and purple that are hallmarks of deep tissue bruising covered his boy's back from shoulder to-

Dean's pelvic bones were turned into the wall, granting John a full view of the havoc he had wrecked on the young man's lower back, buttocks, and thighs.

John's eyes followed the pattern of hemorrhage, nausea washing over him coldly as he realized that it ended at the backs of his son's knees.

Worse still was the realization that the dark canvas was decorated with streaks and slashes of red, the abstract artwork of a confirmed sadist.

"Jesus," the father breathed, dropping the curtain as he stumbled back, thoughts kaleidoscoping frantically. He sorted through them, desperate to find the one that would begin the tortuous process of reparation.

"I...I'll get you some pain-killers." It was the best he could come up with, and he hoped it would do.

* * *

Dean emerged from the bathroom with a towel fisted loosely around his waist, catching John in a paralytic state of indecision.

Dean froze in place, dropping his eyes.

"I-I couldn't find them at first," John lied, unwilling to admit that he'd been afraid to repeat his earlier intrusion. He held his fist out. "The pain-killers, I mean."

Dean didn't react, and John took an eager step forward. "They're the good ones," he explained, as if offering a special treat to a young child.

Still Dean failed to respond, and John stuttered forward, unease replacing eagerness. He cleared his throat softly. "Take them, Dean."

He hadn't meant to make it a command, but as his son's arm reluctantly rose, he realized that it must have sounded that way.

Dean's palm stopped inches from John's own, and the father allowed the medication to drop gently onto the cupped surface. He offered a water bottle with the other hand.

Dean stood for a moment, one heavy-lidded eye locked on the round, white tablets resting against his skin. He blinked, flicking his gaze from the pills to the plastic bottle to the hand holding his towel in place, then back to the pills.

Slowly the palm rose until the edge rested against his lower lip, tipping the narcotics into his barely open mouth. The hand then moved, leaden and dull, as if of its own accord, drawing closer to the proffered beverage.

When it had traversed half the necessary distance, it stopped, suspended in the open space between the two men, waiting.

The analgesics dissolved bitterly against Dean's tongue.

John's brow furrowed, and he tilted the lower half of the bottle towards his son, an impatient gesture of "take it!"

Still Dean stood, waiting.

John studied this new puzzle, determined to solve it. Took in the single visible iris, obscured by dark lashes. The forced closure of the dominant eye. The bruising along the right cheek counter-balanced by that on the left jaw.

He noted with some surprise the breadth of Dean's shoulders, the definition in his chest and arms. Ignoring the geographic purpling over the right side of the torso, he chose instead to observe the thick abdominal muscles and sharply demarcated pelvic bones.

 _He's not a boy_ , the hunter noted, and the father visibly cringed.

The ragged, overly-bleached motel towel sagged loosely against pale skin, and the knuckles of the fist that gripped it were a strained white.

Understanding snapped John's eyes up, and he hurriedly twisted the cap from the container before pushing the now damp plastic into the lax palm still suspended before him.

Without looking at him, Dean raised the bottle to his lips, tilted his head back, and drank until it was empty.

He lowered his arm and stood limply, waiting.

The inaction evoked an image in John's mind of a tow-headed boy, recently rendered motherless and mute, moving only when directed to do so.

Involuntarily scanning that well-developed torso once more, "Why did you-" spilled past John's lips before he choked the words back, knowing that _"let me do this to you?"_ would sound, not like the shocked incredulity he felt, but like an accusation, placing blame on the victim. Blame that belonged to John, and John alone.

"Why don't you go lie down?" he amended, and stepped aside, inviting the man that he hoped would still call him 'Dad' to pass.

Dean moved with the shuffling steps of a shackled prisoner: hesitant, uncoordinated, as if this body was new to him and he was not yet sure that he could trust it. He paused when he reached the narrow alley between the two beds, head down, shoulders hunched.

John's brows furrowed once again as he contemplated this behavior, scrutinizing each bed before turning his attention to the source of his confusion, hoping that the direction of Dean's gaze would give some clue as to what had halted the boy- _grown man_ , he corrected himself-in his tracks.

Dean's head was bowed, lashes lowered, seemingly memorizing the stains in the carpeting at his feet.

John crossed to him, intending to inspect that area himself.

He stopped just behind Dean's left shoulder, and realized that the younger man was trembling.

John backed away, shaken.

He moved to the pile of bedding on the floor, and leaned down to retrieve the pillow as well as a blanket. "You can take whichever bed you want," he offered over his shoulder, gifting the other man with the safety of distance and a turned back.

He waited, consciously ticking off seconds in his head. He reached thirty, and still had not heard his son move.

He turned with forced languor to make his way to the bed closest to the bathroom-the one that he typically forced Dean to occupy, as he himself preferred to place his body between his son and the outer door.

"You can take this one," he suggested.

Dean turned, still visibly shaking, and lifted a knee onto the bed.

"Whoa, whoa, whoa! Lose the towel first, Dean! It's soaking wet!"

At the first barked syllables, Dean had flinched, then frozen in place. Now he straightened, offending limb returning to the floor a step behind its partner.

The towel dropped to the carpet.

Dean reverted to immobility.

John was once again confronted with irrefutable evidence that the son that he had whipped like a child just hours ago was most definitely an adult.

He tossed the pillow into the center of the bed. "Face down. Put that under your hips." He winced at the commanding tone he had unconsciously adopted.

His jaw dropped in morbid fascination as a whole body shudder worked its way through the man before him, and Dean's traumatic silence ended with a barely audible, "Dad...please...I _can't_."

John blanched as he realized where Dean's mind had gone. What his consistently obedient son was undoubtedly remembering from another incident that John swore he'd never repeat.

"No, not...I just meant…" he gestured lamely at the younger man's groin. "That thing practically needs its own room." He tried to force a laugh. Dean's hands moved to shield his genitalia from view. "I just..I mean...It's what I gotta do if I'm forced to sleep on my stomach...you know, because of an injury…to make that position more comfortable."

 _Quit talking, John_ , and he ground his teeth, disgusted with himself.

He closed his eyes, breathing in deeply through his nose, holding it through several heart beats, struggling to clear his mind.

The breath was released in a trenchant sigh, and John felt every second of his age, each brand left by his many failures.

"Please, Dean...just rest, okay? However and wherever you can-" he choked on the words, forced himself to continue, "-you can get comfortable...and rest. I'm going to get some supplies...food...maybe some ice, for an ice bath...to cut down on the swelling."

Skirting wide around the well-built man that John now realized was merely housing a terrified child, the defeated father made his escape.


	3. Chapter 3

**BREATHE CHAPTER 3**

* * *

"I'm going to get some supplies" were the last words to register in Dean's mind.

 _He's leaving me. He's making an excuse and he's leaving me._

He realized he was shaking again, and felt a detached sense of irritation at that evidence of his weakness. So what if is his father left him? He _should_ leave. John should go find Sam. That was what mattered: Sam.

Dean was aware of the door closing and an engine starting up just outside. _Not the Impala_ , he observed. _He's taking his own truck_.

 _Leaving the Impala, because he's leaving_ me.

He swayed, weakness and nausea rocking him. He closed his eyes, fighting for equilibrium, and found himself on his knees between the two beds.

 _He'll come back,_ he promised himself, though he didn't believe it.

He turned to rest his forehead against his bed. _Dad's_ , he corrected, but the reason he'd stopped between the two, driven his father away with his loathsome impotence when it came to such a simple decision, was that he'd been sleeping in the one that John typically claimed. His father had been away, and Dean had always placed himself between the outside world and his little brother Sammy.

Always.

So when his father told him to lie down, he'd had to figure out which choice would piss John Winchester off the least. Would choosing the bed by the door seem defiant, like Dean was challenging his father's authority? Would taking Sammy's bed be disrespectful, because that left John with the one Dean had soiled with whatever dirt, sweat, and God only knows what had rubbed off of his skin and clothes while he slept?

Plus Dean could _maybe_ admit to being just a _little_ bit superstitious, and taking Sammy's bed had felt...wrong. Like he was already assuming that his brother wasn't coming back.

There were so many rules, and every time Dean thought he knew them all, he ended up breaking one.

So he continued to kneel, forehead against the sheet, breathing in the familiar mix of deodorant, after shave, and gun oil that had transferred from his own body to these sheets.

He dozed.

A rude pounding on the door obliterated the peaceful fog that had cradled him, and he gasped as the unexpected rush of adrenaline jolted through his torso. Pain detonated in his fractured ribs.

"Dean, you in there? It's Bobby! Open up, ya idjit!"

"Bobby?" Dean's voice was faint and unrecognizable, even to his own ears.

He braced a palm on each bed and attempted to lever himself to a standing position.

"C'mon Dean! I think I got a lead on Sammy!" The thin wood vibrated beneath the solid older hunter's fist twice more. "Better not be on the shitter," came a quieter but clearly audible growl. "Feel like a sittin' duck out here."

Dean failed to suppress a moan as contused muscles were forced to obey his demand to rise. A sensation akin to that of a thousand wasp stings made him wonder how long his body weight had been resting on his lower legs.

"Fuck." He wasn't certain that he'd be able to walk on feet rendered numb by a prolonged interruption in blood flow.

"Singer! What are you doin' here?"

John's voice.

 _He came back._

Relief, sorrow, guilt, fear, and joy broke over Dean in a deafening wave at the sound of his father's voice, and he closed his eyes tightly against the deluge.

"Hey, Winchester," and in his mind Dean could see the two veteran hunters slapping one another on the shoulder in a restrained display of brotherhood. "Dean called me, wondering if I'd heard from Sam. Figured I'd stop by, see if I could help."

The words carried through the flimsy structure as if it was nonexistent.

"That's mighty kind of ya, Bobby. I was just gonna drop in at the police station and check on a few things. I'll get Dean settled real quick and you can join me."

"Sure. Lemme get those bags from ya so you can unlock the door. Been poundin' on it half the damn' day, and that idjit son of yours ain't answered. He okay?"

Dean's mind kicked into overdrive. _Gotta cover up_. Lying under blankets or wrapping a towel around his waist would've been enough under normal circumstances, but he didn't want Bobby to see that he'd been whipped like small child.

The bruises on his face, those didn't bother him. It'd piss Bobby off-always did when John left marks, whether during training or in discipline-but at least that was the type of bludgeoning an _adult_ earned.

The kind of beating you gave someone you somewhat _respected_.

"He's fine, but I gotta make sure he's decent before you come in. He's been alone for a few days, no tellin' what he's used to doing with his down time."

Dean moved stiffly to the foot of the bed, face contorting as he leaned down to snag his open duffel bag.

 _Fractured ribs, man. Worst fuckin' injury there is._ Core muscles responsible for posture and breathing attach to each slender bone, so everything hurts: laughing, crying, just fucking breathing. Sitting, lying, standing...but the worst is bending, either toward the injury, where each jagged end of bone tunnels through previously shredded muscle to accommodate the movement, or away, where developing scar tissue is brutalized as the area stretches.

But there was movement at the door, and even if Bobby stayed out, Dean would be visible as it opened.

Any physician that had examined Dean's injuries would have sworn that no one in that condition could move as quickly as the young man did, but by the time the door opened, he'd managed to force his mutilated torso into a t-shirt before dropping to sit on the edge of the bed and tug blessedly loose sweatpants up over his hips.

John cracked the door open just enough to stick his head in, body imposed between Bobby's keen eyes and whatever potential horror waited in that cursed motel room.

Dean saw the look of incredulity turn to relief, then ambiguity as his eyes washed over Dean before quickly scanning the room. "Dean?"

"Hey, Dad," and he raised a hand the way he always had. "You came back." He cringed at the words, but John didn't appear to notice.

"How did you...Are you alone?"

Now it was Dean's turn to be confused, an emotion that quickly turned to chagrin . _"You put some diseased whore, a slut with no standards, above your own brother?"_ He lowered his head. "Yeah. I didn't...there's no chic here."

"That's not-"

"Hey, Dean, ya decent?" Bobby's voice boomed out, and John's puzzled scowled turned to one of irritation.

Dean glanced at his father. Their eyes met, and Dean dropped his, chest tightening at the anger he read.

"Yeah, he's decent," John answered for his son, moving in to the room without inviting the older hunter to follow.

Which Bobby did anyway, a paper bag balanced on each arm. "How ya holdin' up, kid?" He dumped the sacks on the table carelessly, then slanted his eyes at John. "Hope ya didn' have eggs in here."

John snorted.

Dean took advantage of Bobby's distracted attention to force himself to his feet so he could escape to the bathroom.

"I gotta hit the shower-"

But Bobby caught him, pulling the younger man in for a brief but tight embrace. Misinterpreting the tense shoulders, he thumped a closed palm against the boy's back. "We'll get 'im back, Dean. Don't you worry." The words were gruff and low, for Dean and Dean alone.

The kindness was like gasoline on the embers of Dean's self-loathing. He dropped his head, tears pearling in his lashes. "Good to see you, Bobby."

In his desperation to escape the searing affection of the grizzled old hunter, Dean turned too quickly, stumbling over his own feet and knocking his shin against the edge of the bed.

Bobby reacted instinctively, arm sliding behind Dean's upper back to balance him.

"What the hell?"

Dean heard the man hiss, and conducted a mental scrutiny of everything Bobby could've seen, heard, or felt in the seconds leading up to that remark.

His shirt was sticking to his back in places. His thin, _white_ shirt.

 _Fuck_.

"It's nothin', Bobby. I need a shower." He tugged his shoulders away gently and focused on keeping his movements as smooth and loose as possible until he succeeded in breaching the sanctuary of the motel's out-dated bathroom.

He nearly fell into that haven, kicking the door shut with his heel before catching the edge of the sink with both palms. He allowed his head to hang, feeling a pulse beat in one swollen eye and scabs tear across his upper back as his shoulders hunched until the blades were all but touching.

"What the hell happened to _him_?"

Bobby's voice carried too clearly through the door, and Dean shifted his weight to free his right arm long enough to start water running into the sink.

Either John didn't answer or his voice was too low for Dean to hear.

Bobby's was loud, strong, and indignant. "Did _you_ do that to him?"

Dean cringed, and that hateful shaking began once more.

"Sweet Mother of God, Winchester! Pile a' blankets over vomit, blood on the floor and the wall...What the fuck did you _do_?"

Dean was certain that Bobby's hunter instincts had kicked in, and the man who had been his surrogate father for more years than he could count had started adding things up.

" _Please, Bobby. Don't._ " But his own voice was a whisper so quiet that it failed to reach anyone's ears, including his own.

A low rumble marked John's response, followed by Bobby's increasingly angry retort. "'On Dean's watch'? Are you fucking _kidding_ me, Winchester? Sam is _seventeen years old_. He doesn't need a goddamned babysitter, and Dean has a right to some sort of life of his own!"

"Dean knows that Sam is _his_ responsibility, especially when I'm not around!"

Dean couldn't tell if his father had moved closer to the bathroom, or his rising temper was illustrated in his voice. Neither bode well, and Dean moved from the sink to kneel before the toilet, stomach rolling ominously.

"What the fuck is wrong with you, Winchester? I've never agreed with the burden you placed on Dean, making a kid be a parent to another kid, but for Christ' sake-"

"Don't you _fucking_ tell me how to raise my own _fucking_ kids!"

Dean's abdomen contracted violently and agony locked his diaphragm in place as his fractured ribs insisted that all motion stop _now_.

"Not what you said all those times you dropped them off at my place over the past decade-and-a-half!"

"Bullshit! We've had this conversation before! I know what I'm doing!"

"Do you _really_?" Bobby's voice was poisonous with sarcasm and condescension. "Because that boy in there is one of the best I've ever known. He's a good hunter, tough as hell, smart, and loyal to a fault. And you just keep pushing, keep demanding more, and he tries so hard to please you, and then you do _this_?"

Dean reached to flush the toilet, desperate to drown out the voices.

The liquid cacophony ended, allowing Bobby's voice to assert itself once more. "And I can guaran-damn- _tee_ that you convinced him that he deserved it. You _fucking_ asshole."

"He god-damned well _did_ deserve it, Bobby! It's Sam. Fucking _Sam_! Mary _died_ trying to protect him, and I…"

Dean rested his clammy forehead on the cool edge of the commode, face running hot with tears.

"And you don't think she would have done the same for Dean?" The eldest hunter's voice was softer, but still laced with ire.

"Losing Sam….It's like I'm losing Mary all over again."

The wounded tone was one Dean rarely heard, and remorse emerged to throttle him.

"Jesus, John. Don't you think I know that? But do you ever, even for a minute, stop to think about what all of this is like for Dean? Mary was his _mother_ , Sam is his _brother_ , and you-you're his drill sergeant, his fucking idol, and by God, John, you're tearing this kid apart!"

Dean's shoulders heaved with the sobs he fought to control, and this-hearing his thoughts voiced and validated by Bobby-this torment was so much more intense than what his father's belt had executed.

John's voice was reduced to a low rumble.

"So are you telling me that Dean is expendable? Is that how it is for you, Winchester?" Bobby's indignation had found fuel, and his volume intensified once more.

Dean crawled to the bathtub, cranking both taps up until they were fully open, the resultant stream nearly deafening. He closed the drain, turbulence adding to the din.

"Then you need to stop treating him like he is. That boy-no, that _man_ -he's on edge. I can _feel_ it. Worse yet, I've seen it in the way he hunts, taking unnecessary risks, always ready to sacrifice himself for any _one_ or any _thing_. He ain't just your equal, John, he's _better_ than you, and he's the only who don't know it."

 _No_. "No," Dean grunted, and his chest was being shredded from the inside. "It's not true."

"You worry so fucking much about losing Sam. You gotta start thinking about where you'll be when you lose _Dean_ , because _that's_ the path you're on right now."

A door slammed, and the piercing wail of his dying soul was the only sound Dean heard.


	4. Chapter 4

**BREATHE CHAPTER 4**

* * *

"Dean." The voice was as gentle as the single-knuckled wrap that heralded it, but the man in question still startled at the sound. "You alright?"

"Just a sec." He flushed the toilet, buying himself time to wipe the evidence of his weakness from his face before moving to the door.

He took a deep breath, then opened it.

His father stood, looking uncertain.

Dean felt his throat tighten.

"I got ice," the elder Winchester offered, raising the long plastic bag in his fist. "Thought you might wanna soak."

Dean cleared his throat. "Yeah. I already got the water running."

John looked past his son and nodded. "Good. I'll just dump this in there before it gets too full."

"I can do it," and Dean reached for the bag.

John turned his shoulders, moving the gift out of his son's reach. "You...pretty sure your...your ribs are busted. Or at least bruised. Just let me do it." Guilt roughened his voice. He watched Dean drop his eyes and lick his lips while shrinking away as much as the claustrophobia-inducing space would allow, and inwardly cursed himself.

He slid past the silent young man, tested the water temperature, turned the hot water tap off, emptied the contents of the bag into the tub. He checked to make certain that there was a clean, dry towel nearby, that the soap was unwrapped and ready, that there was shampoo in easy reach if Dean wanted it.

When he ran out of excuses for avoiding his son, he took a deep breath and stood.

Dean was in exactly the same position he'd been in when John sidled past him.

The father in him wondered how this son of his, the one who'd been disciplined multiple times for his inability to keep still on long car rides, could be so entirely motionless now.

John opened his mouth, wanting to say something about that, share a memory he had of Dean driving his father crazy by turning on his knees in the passenger seat to toss M-n-Ms at his younger and easily irritated brother…

The mirror over the sink reflected the crimson-striped back of his son's shirt, and the words stuck in John's throat.

"Just-" his throat felt raw. He moved his tongue, working up some saliva, and swallowed.

It seemed to resonate in that small space.

"Leave the door unlocked, okay, Kiddo? And holler if you need anything. You want a beer or somethin'? Too early for more of the Tylenol with codeine, but I could get you something else…."

His voice trailed off.

Dean shook his head, eyes averted. "I'm good." He paused. "Thanks."

John nodded. "Good. Fifteen minutes, alright? More than that and I gotta check on ya. Fair warning."

He thought that might bring a smile-it had in the past-but Dean simply gave a solemn nod. "Yessir."

John sidled past his son to go pour himself a drink.

* * *

Knowing his father was listening, Dean bit back a groan as he lowered himself into the cold water. There was no way he wanted to put pressure on any part of the back of his body, but without a snorkel, lying on his stomach wasn't an option.

He grimaced as the ice water flooded over his groin. "Fuckin' hate cold," he muttered, but he knew it would help, so he settled in, face twitching in pain as he eased his hips to the bottom of the tub, then leaned back to gingerly press his shoulder blades to the slanted back. He closed his eyes-one eye, really, as the other was obscured by swelling-and concentrated on the way the frigid temperature felt on his loins.

It distracted him from everything that hurt.

The old trick worked, and the part of his brain that was screaming alarms at him about all of the sensations it was getting that were meant to alert him that damage was being done, that he needed to run, or fight, to fix this: all of that faded into the background.

Which left the majority of his consciousness free to obsess about other things.

Bobby had said out loud the things Dean had felt: it wasn't fair that he had to look out for Sammy all the time, he deserved a life of his own, his dad was wrong for expecting so much, wrong for….

Even silently, he couldn't put it into words. A cloud of images and sensations roiled in their place, everything that happened from Dean's admission of guilt to passing out on the floor contained therein.

He rolled his lower lip under his teeth.

The problem was that Dean was pretty sure Bobby was wrong. The stuff Dean had thought, that Bobby had said, that was all just selfish and...whiny. Dean was a Winchester, and Winchesters were hunters, and family was everything, and that's the way it was. Yeah, his dad treated him like Dean was a soldier, but that's because what they did was dangerous and heroic, just like a soldier, and the only way to survive was to be hard, to be strong, physically but also mentally, and you didn't get that way without...Well, you didn't get that way by being coddled, babied.

And Bobby was wrong about another thing, because Dean _was_ proud of who he was, as a hunter, at least. He knew he was good at. Better than any other hunter his own age that he knew about, better than most of the ones older than him. His dad had taught him well, plus he never shied from a hunt, no matter how nasty the monster, so despite being barely old enough to buy his own alcohol, he had a lot of experience with killing evil things.

Dean loved hunting. He loved being a hero.

And he loved Sammy.

He shifted in the numbing liquid, wincing.

Okay, maybe sometimes he was jealous. "Resentful" was probably a better word. Because it really _was_ unfair, the difference in how they were treated. Dean was already hunting by the time he was nine, but Sammy didn't even know monsters existed until he was eight, and didn't learn how to shoot a pistol for another year after that.

Yet Dean didn't want this life for Sammy, and the older they got, the stronger that feeling became, until the resentment lost its power. Protecting Sam had come to mean so much more than just keeping him safe from monsters. It was shielding him from _anything_ that would hurt him, turn him rough and cold like Dean and John and Bobby.

"He's who he's s'posed to be," Dean uttered.

"You need something?" John called through the door, and Dean realized he'd spoken out loud.

"No. Just got a Metallica song in my head. Sorry."

"You want some music?"

"Nah, 's alright. Thanks, though."

"You feeling light-headed or anything?"

"No. I'm good."

"Alright."

Dean listened to the sound of his father moving away from the door and tried to pick up the thread of his last thought.

He didn't have any options. That was the thing. Dean was who he was supposed to be, because...well, life made it so he had to be this way. His present, his future, that was all dictated to him by the events in his past, things that happened that he and his dad and his mom and his little brother had no control over. Maybe when he was three or four he'd been like Sam, innocent and round-cheeked and soft, playing at being a cop or a fire-fighter or...whatever. And maybe he'd would've ended up different, a guy with a blue collar job, a mechanic maybe, feeling the satisfaction of working with his hands, coming home at night to a sweet-smelling woman and a cold beer, being the kind of guy that other guys liked to hang around, a guy who laughed a lot and made other people laugh too, who loved to play with his kids and teach them things like how to shoot a bow or change a tire, not because they needed to fight monsters or be independent way too young, but because it was just so good to be with them, and see things through their eyes….

A hot tear contrasted sharply with the chilled skin on his face, and he wiped it away.

It reminded him that his eye was a fucking mess, and he reached for the wash cloth carefully balanced on the edge of the tub, cupping it in his hand, filling it with ice, then pressing it to a blackened orbit.

So, he couldn't have all that. It may have been the guy that he was supposed to be once, but it wasn't the guy that life let him be.

Sam, though...if he could protect Sam enough, _Sam_ could have that. He could be who he was meant to be, the smart guy with some kind of white collar job that he'd had to go to college for a million years to get, with a whole frickin' _alphabet_ after his name, and a glamorous wife that was so high society it made Dean nervous to be around her, and a huge mansion of a home with weird artwork on the walls that cost more than Dean could make in an entire night of hustling pool, and a membership at a...a golf course, or something like that.

Sam could have all of that, _deserved_ to have all of that, but only if Dean did his job right.

He had to look out for Sammy, because at least one of them should get to _choose_ his life, not have it dictated to him.

So his dad was right. And maybe Dean didn't agree with how he did it, but John had done a good job of making Dean into the person he needed to be, and Dean knew he couldn't get there on his own, that he needed to be forced, and reminded, and punished. And Bobby was wrong about one more thing, because when it came to John Winchester, not criticizing was the same as giving praise, and Dean got that a lot.

Dean knew he wasn't better than John. He still made mistakes, still...but he knew he was good, _damned_ good, and he knew who he had to thank for that.

He'd always known, and that's why he didn't fight back when John struck him, and why he stripped when John ordered him to, even though he knew what was coming.

Because life had forced this on John Winchester, too, and they were both doing the best they could.


	5. Chapter 5

**BREATHE CHAPTER 5**

* * *

Dean opened the bathroom door, startling both men, as John had been reaching for the door knob.

"Sorry, kiddo." John raised his wrist to look at his watch. "Your fifteen minutes are up. I was about to come check on you." He smiled at his son, relieved when Dean returned the gesture with a tentative smile of his own. "Um...how you feelin'?"

"Better. The codeine really messes with my balance and shit. I'm glad it's wearing off."

John glanced down. "Good that you aren't dressed yet. I need to take a look at...that." He swallowed against the pressure in his chest. "Make sure nothing needs stitches." His throat was closing. Stubbornly, he fought it. "Too early to see infection, but I should get some antibiotic ointment on there, too."

Dean nodded, seeming preternaturally calm in contrast to his still unnerved father. "'Kay." He waited, but John remained in place, preventing his exit. "Um...you want me take Sammy's bed? 'Cuz I gotta tell ya, his is cleaner than mi-the one by the door. He was only in his one night."

John stepped back. "Oh." He should have figured that Dean would take his place, both literally as well as figuratively, when he left his boys alone. He shrugged. "It don't matter to me. I'd still like to be by the door, and I'm sure I've slept on worse sheets." He started towards the kitchen to retrieve the first aid kit, then stopped, brow furrowed. "You ah...you didn't have sex in that bed, did you?"

Dean actually laughed, and the feeling that swept through John was like a cool drink of water in the middle of a desert.

"No, Dad. I used Sammy's for that. Don't tell him." His son paused, and that mischievous twinkle that usually boded ill for his little brother was back in his eyes. "On second thought, _do_ tell him, but not until he's slept in it at least once."

John chuckled. "N-"

 _No wonder he ran away!_ Had been the retort that came to mind, but he bit it off. _Too soon._

"No, I'll let you tell him." He palmed the first aid kit, then gestured with his head for Dean to lie down. "I'll take a look at your back first, save the ribs for last."

"Alright."

John watched the young man move easily to the bed, impressed with his son's resiliency. _Would I have gotten over something like this so fast? Forgiven my father for something like this before the wounds were even treated?_

He'd grown up without a father, and his mom hadn't been much of a disciplinarian, so he had no way to know. No way to judge himself against the standard set by his own son.

Pride was a warm pressure in his chest, forcing tears to gather in his eyes, goading him into speaking, but he could not find the right words.

That had never been his way, never been _their_ way. He didn't know how, couldn't predict how Dean would react if he even tried.

He watched as the young hunter eased himself down onto the bed, wincing slightly as he arranged the pillows to his liking: arms beneath them, head cradled comfortably.

John set the first aid kit on the nightstand and went to wash his hands.

He was stalling, still sickened by the evidence of his weakness, his inability to control his temper, his utter failure as a parent and a leader.

He took more time than he needed, first waiting for the water to run hot, then soaping, rinsing, and repeating.

 _Where did I learn this?_ But it wasn't a difficult question: he was a marine, after all.

He remembered his first week at basic training, how shocked he'd been...how it had almost broken him. He'd been coddled his whole life. Not spoiled, really, but his mom was more likely to explain than punish, and although he hadn't taken advantage of that, hadn't been a trouble-maker-well, not much of one-he'd felt...weak. Soft. Like he didn't fit his own definition of a man.

So he'd joined the marines, and there was nothing soft or weak about his drill sergeant.

He'd hated the man. Hated, idolized, and emulated him.

He saw all of that in Dean, and it terrified him.

John dried his hands before returning to his son's side, and smiled when he recognized the soft rumble of the boy's- _Not a boy_ -snore.

"Dean," he called softly, because even he wasn't stupid enough to startle this particular hunter out of a sound sleep, "I'm gonna get to work on you now." He moved to the side of the bed, then added, "Don't hit me."

The rhythmic snoring was briefly interrupted by a barely intelligible, "G' 'head," before resuming the pattern.

John chuckled. He settled gently beside his son, first aid kit open in his lap.

He couldn't put it off any longer.

Wincing in anticipation, he began his first close inspection of the damage he had caused to one of the most important people in his life.

The bruising was extensive, but the cuts weren't deep. None appeared to require sutures. He moved from the nape of Dean's neck down his back, applying antibiotic ointment liberally while palpating as gently yet thoroughly as he was capable of.

Dean only grunted over two spots: the dorsal spinous process tenting the skin over the middle of his spine, and a spot over one jutting pelvic bone. _Cracked or bruised,_ John noted clinically, _painful but not serious_.

He directed his attention to the young man's lower body, feeling a little sick as he finally realized that the thin white lines he'd noticed threading their way through the purple-black contusions were scars from previous beatings.

 _Never again_ , he commanded himself, but a feeling of dread settled in the pit of his stomach as he immediately remembered that he'd given that same command before, that each and every time he'd made that decree, he had later violated it.

 _How could I do that?_ He asked himself, and it was the same question he always asked, with the same answer: he didn't know.

Every time, it was a blur. He could remember the anger building until it became a rage so hot, so huge, that it exploded from him in fury, and he didn't really know what he was doing, didn't ...plan anything out, or think about it, didn't observe the boy's responses and modulate his actions accordingly….

Always, _always_ , his awareness jumped from a black rage to an even blacker despair as his mind finally registered the sight of his son's battered body splayed out before him.

He'd kill any monster, human or supernatural, that dared even _attempt_ to injure his boy….and yet, he could do _this_.

John swallowed down bile and self-hatred as he smoothed the healing cream into his son's cuts.

Never again.


	6. Chapter 6

**BREATHE CHAPTER 6**

* * *

The weathered old hunter shoved his sweat-stained ball cap out of the way to dig the fingers and thumb of his left hand into his temples.

"Fucking Winchester," he muttered, but the anger was tempered with sadness. "Damned idjit dun't know what he's got."

For an instant the scent of freshly baked pie, image of a gentle-voiced blonde, and touch of a loving palm overwhelmed him.

He'd had a family once, too.

"Be damned if I'm gonna just sit back and watch you blow that all to hell, ya stubborn git."

He scowled at his phone as he thumbed in a number on the speed dial.

"Bobby." The name was a snarl.

"Now don't hang up! I'm sittin' out front, and I got somethin' for ya. A peace offering, though Lord knows you don't deserve it. I'm gonna knock in about five seconds. Don't shoot me through the door."

The silence on the other end had him sweating.

"Come." And the call ended.

"So like fucking Winchester", Bobby snorted. "'Come', like he's a fuckin' king and I'm just a...a peasant, coming to seek a fuckin' audience with him. Arrogant bastard."

He tugged his cap back into place before lunging out of the car, past noticing how difficult that once fluid transition had become. He slammed the door, grimacing at the rust that patterned down onto his boot, then moved to a rear door. He'd chosen his peace offerings with a certainty borne of experience, and filled his arms before knocking the rear door shut with a hip and approaching the Winchester threshold.

Without a hand free to knock, he was forced to announce himself. "Yer majesty," he snarked, "I come bearing gifts."

John was scowling as he opened the door, face softening slightly as he took in the take out boxes and six pack. "Bobby. C'mon in." His voice was hushed. "Dean's asleep."

"We'll save 'im some," Bobby grunted.

He moved past John to set his offerings on the table, then strode around to the far side to claim the chair that was backed against the wall and facing the door.

Prime spot, he calculated.

John stood considering him while Bobby casually twisted the top off a beer, locked eyes with the younger man, and drank.

 _Like two old frosty-maned lions,_ he observed, _sizin' up the competition, wonderin' if it's worth it._

But Bobby knew what the prize was. He'd been in this ring a few times before, and he'd lost those rounds, but he'd be damned if he was gonna get KO'd this time. It was round three, and the title was on the line.

Bobby'd been around this family long enough to know the pattern, and this was John Winchester at his most vulnerable. Maybe it was wrong to use the man's shame and remorse against him, but if exploiting a weakness didn't work...well, Bobby knew he was gettin' a little old to beat the sense into a rangy young bull like John Winchester, but by God, he'd have a go at it if the asshole raised his hand to Dean one more time.

"Gotta lead for ya." He fished a folded page from his shirt pocket, and John lowered himself into the remaining chair.

"Sammy?" the father asked, his restraint audible.

"Sorta." Bobby unfolded the paper, smoothing it on the table between them.

This was where it could turn ugly real fast.

"Lady's old man is a hunter. She knows things. She can help ya outta this mess if ya let her."

Winchester had raised a skeptical eyebrow. "She know where I can find Sam?"

Bobby tipped the bottle to his lips, stalling while he gauged his words. "Better. She can help you _keep_ him."

The hunter's eyes hardened along with the cut of his jaw, but Bobby matched him glower for glower.

Dean groaned softly, shifting in his sleep, and John broke.

He covered by picking up a beer. "So what is she? A witch? She gonna put a spell on Sammy?"

Bobby grunted. "Don't be such an idjit." He paused, evaluating his options just in case his next revelation lit the other man's fuse. "She's a head shrinker."

John snorted. "Same damn' thing." He tilted the bottle to his lips, eyes thoughtful. "You think Sam's just...what, depressed? And she can talk him out of it, make him wanna stay?"

Bobby's eyes held John's as the wizened head shifted side to side. "Ain't Sam that needs to talk, John. It's you."

The younger man's jaw tightened and his eyes shifted to his older son, lying face down on the bed, covers pulled to his neck.

John lowered his eyelids along with the bottle, shoulders weighted down on a long sigh.

"Don't do no good to bring 'im back if'n he don't want to stay. The two of you can't keep him chained up, and you can't watch him twen'y four-seven. You're gonna end up right back where you are now, and if _that_ happens, you'll lose 'em both."

Evening light slanted across the room from the front window, turning the tear on John's cheekbone to molten lava.

 _And now's the part where he puts a bullet in my brain,_ but despite that near certainty, Bobby continued to push, forcing his long time friend into a corner. "You need help, John." He took a quick swig of his beer, mouth gone dry. "I called a cab."

The other man shot to his feet with such force that the chair he'd been in slammed into the wall, jarring a cheap framed print into rattling against its hook.

"You called a fucking cab?"

Bobby gazed at the hunter calmly. _Jus' like a feral cat_ , he reasoned. _You just gotta take it slow and easy, 'til he realizes there's no threat here_. "Lemme ask you somethin' John," and his voice was warm, without censure. "Did you make yourself a promise here today?"

John's glare wavered, and Bobby knew he'd guessed correctly.

"Did you swear to yourself that you'd never do this again?"

The other man's eyes slanted away, and color rose in his cheeks.

Bobby gentled his voice even more, reaching to stroke that timorously defensive cat. "Not the first time you told yerself that, is it?"

And John broke.

* * *

John unfolded himself from the back of the cab, assessing his surroundings with a practiced glance camouflaged by an elaborate stretch.

 _Suburbia_. _Fantastic_.

He leaned toward the driver's window, wallet in hand, only to have the cabby wave him away. "I gotta wait for you to get done," the man explained. "Don't worry. Your pop already took care of it."

John chuckled at that. _My_ pop. _Can't wait to tell Singer that one._

He turned reluctantly to face the house. _White picket fence and the whole nine yards_. "Shee-iit," he muttered, and just off of his right shoulder, the cab driver chuckled.

John twisted toward him, eyebrow raised.

"I don't like the 'burbs, either, man. All the houses look the same. Creeps me out."

White teeth flashed in a strained smile before John sketched a salute. "If I'm not out in an hour, send in some strippers and beer, alright?"

This time the driver's laugh was chest-deep. "You got it, man."

The hunter ambled up the walk to rap on the door, aiming to project a confidence he didn't feel.

The woman who answered was older than he'd expected, silver hair caught back in a soft bun, understated make up somehow focusing attention on her eyes, sweater and ankle-length skirt looking simultaneously stylish yet comfortable.

"John Winchester?" she inquired, and he felt some of his tension drain away.

 _Don't know how much Bobby told her, but at least it doesn't sound like she's ready to call social services on me._

He offered his hand. "Caroline?"

Her hand was warm in his, grip firm without being challenging. "Bobby's been singing your praises for years. Please, come in."

The home matched the woman in both comfort and grace, and John relaxed as he slid onto a bar stool in the well-appointed kitchen.

"I usually drink tea at this time of the evening," Caroline explained, "but I could make coffee if you'd prefer. Or is there something else you'd like?"

"A stiff drink," he muttered, and to his surprise, she agreed.

"One or two would probably help. Whiskey, tequila, or beer?"

Both eyebrows shot up in surprise before John caught himself. "Ah...whiskey would be great. Thanks."

Two glasses, two spheres of ice in each, and golden brown liquid from an oddly shaped bottle.

John eyed it closely, trying to read the label, and she smiled. "Blanton's," she supplied, setting it down within in his reach. "Only bourbon my husband will allow in the house."

John took a sip, holding it in his mouth, letting it bite his tongue as it warmed itself before sliding down his throat. "Not bad." He set his glass down to pick up the bottle, turning it in his palms. "I like the bottle. Looks like a hand grenade."

"Hm. I hadn't thought of that, but I suppose it does."

John set the bottle down, and Caroline settled onto a stool, the slick granite bar stretching between them.

"Time to get serious, huh?" He heard the tension in his voice, and wondered if she did, too.

"Yes, I suppose it is. Where would you like to start?"

He forced himself to take a controlled sip of his whiskey. "Guess it depends."

"On what?"

He shrugged one shoulder. "On what Bobby told you."

He found it disconcerting that he couldn't bring himself to make eye contact with the woman.

"Hmm….well, he told me that you're a former marine. That you took up hunting after your wife died. That you have two sons who also hunt. That one recently disappeared, apparently of his own accord."

In the silence, he could feel her studying him.

"He told me that he was worried about you, and about Dean."

John held the glass suspended between his two hands, elbows braced on the bar top.

"Bobby oughta mind his own business." He spilled the remaining liquid into his mouth, ice knocking painfully into his upper lip, then set the glass down and reached for the bottle.

Caroline made no move to stop him as John helped himself to two fingers of her husband's whiskey.

He gestured at her glass, and she shook her head. "I'm good, thanks."

He set the bottle down and began running a fingertip over the tumbler's cool rim.

"What business is it that he's intruding on?"

"Family business."

"You don't think of Bobby as family?"

John closed his eyes, sifting through memories.

 _He took me under his wing when I first started hunting, he chided himself. Taught me all he could. Took care of the boys when I had to get away. Never said no to that, not once. Christmas, Thanksgiving, Independence Day...all those holidays, just the four of them._

"Yeah," he ground out, "I do."

"He feels the same. It's why he called me." She leaned forward, and suddenly warm hands covered his, stilling his movement. "He cares about you, John. He cares about your boys. He took a big risk with this, and he knows that. He wouldn't have done it if you-you're happiness and that of your boys-didn't mean something to him."

"I know," and his voice was so thickened that it didn't sound like his own.

"So: tell me about your boys."

* * *

The whiskey was gone, the cab had been sent away, they'd moved to a pair of couches segregated by a heavy wooden coffee table, and still, John talked.

"This was clearly not the life you envisioned," she pointed out, and John shrugged.

"We don't always get to choose."

"Well, not always. But in this case, you did."

She trapped him with silences that he knew would stretch all the way to Hell if he didn't fill them.

"Revenge. I could've let it go, but I chose revenge."

She tipped her head in agreement. "If only the monsters knew that they were spawning their own nemeses…."

John smiled grimly.

"But," she paused, rearranging herself on the couch and leaning towards him, "that choice has consequences."

"I know. We move around a lot, we get hurt-"

"You lose people, your boys don't learn to form meaningful attachments. That's all true, but it's not the greatest cost."

He waited.

The moment expanded, undulating in the space between them.

"So, what is?"

She smiled. "That's what we need to find out before you can bring Sam home."


	7. Chapter 7

**BREATHE CHAPTER 7**

* * *

"Bobby?" Dean whispered into the sudden silence.

"Yeah." He scrubbed a hand down his face.

"Is...is Dad gone?"

"Just for a little bit. He'll be back."

Dean fought to untangle himself from the blankets, his only thought to get dressed and go after his father.

"Christ!" the startled expletive from the normally placid hunter surprised Dean. He'd forgotten about his back, or at least that Bobby hadn't seen it yet. He twisted into a sitting position, facing away from his friend, fighting for consciousness against the protest of broken ribs, his body insisting that he needed to stop moving and let himself heal.

The weakness passed. He pressed his arm against his side, stabilizing the fractures, and pushed himself to his feet.

Cold nausea hit him with a vengeance, and he swayed, closing his eyes and swallowing convulsively.

Bobby's hand was cradling his elbow, warm and solid. "Easy, boy. Take it easy."

Dean lowered his head, focusing on taking shallow, careful breaths. _Don't puke. God, that would hurt so fucking much._

Sweat beaded on his skin, and he tried to focus on what that felt like, or the sensation of Bobby's palm, or on the faint sounds coming from the room next door-

"Dude," and Bobby was taken aback by the amused tone in the struggling hunter's voice, "they're gettin' it on next door."

Bobby snorted. "Leave it to you to notice that in the condition you're in. Pervert."

Dean continued to breathe carefully, head down, eyes closed, but he was no longer swallowing spastically and a smirk curved his lips. "Whaddaya think, Bobby? Hooker or secretary?"

Bobby shook his head. "You alright?" His tone was heavy with concern.

Dean opened his eyes. "Better, yeah." The memory of why he'd needed to stand in the first place came back to him. "Where's Dad? You guys were fighting."

"I sent him to get some help. You wanna get dressed, there, Adam?"

"That'd be nice. Unless the lady next door is feeling adventurous."

"Like I said: pervert." Bobby picked up a duffel bag, rummaging through it. "Dark colored t-shirts with rock band logos. Must have the right bag."

"Hell, yeah. Gimme the Led Zepplin one. And some sweat pants."

"You want panties there, Princess?"

Dean reached behind him, fingers wincing their way down his damaged flesh. "Nah. I think the less I got touchin' me, the better."

"Yeah." Bobby carefully manipulated the boy into his clothing, hindered by his friend's bluster. "Quit movin' so much, ya idjit!"

"I'm not a baby, for Pete's sake! I can dress myself!"

"Not right now ya can't! Now shut up and let's get this over with!"

"You gonna tell me where Dad is?"

"After yer dressed and we're gettin' some food inta ya. Now work with me here."

Dean subsided, grumbling just enough to maintain his dignity, and Bobby hid his smile. "Alright. Now you're decent enough, grab a pillow for your ass and let's eat."

Dean did as he was told. "Don't know if I can eat yet. What'd ya bring?"

"Chinese. Got some egg drop soup might stay down."

Despite his reservations, Dean's stomach rumbled, and he lowered himself to the cushioned chair gratefully. "Thanks, Bobby."

"Got some meds for ya, too." He thumped his fist down on the table near Dean's, leaving two white tablets in its wake.

"Tylenol with codeine?"

"It's a damned shame how easily you recognize those."

Dean didn't respond, but a familiar uncertainty and shame rose in his cheeks. He hurriedly swallowed the pills, washing them down with bottled water.

"I don't mean nothin' against ya, Dean. It ain't yer fault you get hurt. That stuff is hunter's candy." Bobby settled himself into the chair opposite the young man, arranging take-out boxes, manipulating chopsticks with surprising dexterity. "And I know it's gonna piss you off to hear me say it, but what your father did to you...that was wrong, and it ain't your fault."

Dean stirred the thick soup, queasiness returning. "Bobby...I really don't wanna talk about this."

"Course not. That's 'cause you're a stubborn idjit, just like yer old man." He paused, transferring rice and meat in a white sauce to his mouth. He stabbed the chopsticks in Dean's direction. "And that's what he's gettin' help for. Ain't enough to bring Sam home, Dean: we gotta keep him here. For that to happen, somethin's gotta change."

Dean lifted the spoon and tilted it, watching yellow liquid drip back into the styrofoam container. _Looks like pus._ A thin piece of egg oozed over the edge. ' _S like chunk of shape shifter skin._ Bile rose, and he pushed the bowl away.

"Maybe…." his voice was tentative. "Maybe we should...just let him go."

He held himself very still, waiting for the storm to break.

It didn't come. "Yeah," Bobby sighed instead. "I thought about that. Probably be the best thing for Sam. Don't know if yer dad can do it, though."

Dean slid a container of rice in the space vacated by the shape-shifter soup and picked up a pair of chopsticks, just to give himself something to do.

"Why's he like that, Bobby?" And his voice was so small, so tremulous, that it seemed like he was a kid again, sitting at Uncle Bobby's kitchen table in the warmth of dusk, learning how to use chopsticks, asking the kind older man to explain the enigma of his father.

"Scared a' losin' ya. You know that."

"But he-" It felt like his sternum was being crushed.

"I know, kid. I know. So afraid of monsters, he's practically becoming one himself. 'Least where you and yer brother are concerned."

"He doesn't hit Sammy." As soon as he said it, Dean wondered why he'd spoken the words, and regretted it.

"Yeah, I know. It's like he got himself locked into that night, needin' you to protect Sammy so he could try to help yer mum. 'S exactly what ya'all have been doin' ever since."

Dean grunted, genuinely surprised at the insight. "I never thought of that."

Bobby shrugged. "I live alone, kid. I got nothin' to do but think."

"So...tell me about where you sent him?"

"A shrink. Husband's a hunter. You gonna eat that rice, or just count the grains?"

Dean pushed it over to him. Bobby scooped some into his _moo goo gai pan_ before handing it back.

"Anyway," he resumed around a mouthful of food, "she's good. Pretty sure she can help."

"How do you know she's good?"

Bobby stilled, forcing Dean to raise his eyes. Bobby held fhe contact. "'Cuz she helped me, son. That's how."

* * *

"So, let me be certain that I understand: things had been going very well between you, and Dean in particular had impressed you with his skills as a hunter, consistency in following directions, and devotion to his responsibilities. Is that correct?"

John nodded, affirming the counselor's summary.

"And Sam had been less defiant and argumentative, getting good grades, and making friends. Yes?"

"Yeah."

"But you had to pull Sam out of school because there'd been some deaths in another town. You were going to look into it on your own and call either Bobby or your boys in if you needed back-up."

"That's how we usually do it, yeah."

"The monster, likely a shape-shifter, ran, and you followed him, still intending to call the boys-or Bobby-in if you needed them, but then you got the call from Dean that his brother missing. It took you a day to make it back, at which time Dean admitted that he'd been with a girl when Sam packed his things and ran away."

John was quiet.

"You were overwhelmed with rage and with fear for your younger son, and the next thing you knew, Dean was unconscious."

"Yeah."

"He never fought back, never defended himself, didn't protest or try to stop you."

"No." _He trusted me. Poor stupid kid trusted me._

Caroline was a quiet for a moment. "How long had it been since there'd been a similar incident?"

"What, beating Dean half to death?" Self-censure twisted his voice.

"Applying excessive physical discipline to either of your sons."

"I never hit Sammy."

Caroline tilted her head in acknowledgement.

John had never realized what an effective interrogation technique silence could be. It worried him with dull teeth, tugging and goading until he had to speak or risk losing his mind.

"Dean was seventeen. He left Sammy alone."

Caroline sat back, focus entirely on the man before her, and listened.

* * *

" _Face down. Pillow under your hips."_

 _His son's face turned white. "Dad-"_

 _John's backhand blow caught the boy across the cheek, and Dean staggered, knocking a lamp off the nightstand._

" _Do it!" John's whole being shook with rage that he fought to control._ Just can't trust this kid to do anything right!

 _Dean turned, stripping the blanket from the bed and holding a pillow against him as he moved to comply with his father's harsh demand._

Jesus Christ. He's just gonna push every fucking button today, isn't he? _"Pants down, Dean," and the growl was laden with both irritation and disgust._

" _Please, Dad, I'm seventeen!"_

 _The petulant whine was the detonator on John's rage._

 _In the space of a heartbeat an iron hand had clamped around the boy's throat, fingers a vice locked onto both sides of his jaw. One corner of John's lip lifted in a snarl as he raised his son off the floor and slammed him against the wall._

 _John leaned in, incensed. "One more sound and I swear to god I will rip your lying tongue out."_

 _Dean was choking, the hand around his throat effectively drowning him. H_ _e struggled weakly, fingernails scraping along drywall._

 _The battle was short-lived._

 _The instant Dean's body went slack, John hurled him to the bed and flipped him onto his stomach. He was rabid, overwhelmed with the need to punish and pummel. He looked around, spotting a thick wooden hairbrush balanced precariously on the edge of the nightstand._

Perfect _._

 _He brought the implement down repeatedly on his son's jean-clad buttocks, and the impact would have been satisfying if not for the child's almost complete lack of reaction._

I will get through to this stubborn, insolent, dishonest, irresponsible, disrespectful-

" _Pants down." The rage had turned cold, chilling him, yet still his limbs trembled with the need to destroy._

 _Dean closed his eyes as his hands moved to obey. Snap and zipper gave way, and he raised his hips, thumbs catching the waistband of both jeans and boxers, working the material down._

Jesus fucking Christ. _John impatiently ripped the boy's clothing into a more acceptable position. "Lift up," he commanded, and jammed a pillow roughly under Dean's groin, forcing his hips up to expose the tender crease where glutes meet hamstrings._

 _John shook his head at the bruises already evident on his son's backside._ Defiant little shit. Too proud to admit that the spanking hurt.

 _He moved around the perimeter of the bed, positioning himself at Dean's side, pinning him with his left arm. A sick glimmer of satisfaction pierced the black rage in anticipation of the response he was about to elicit from his insolent son._ This will humble the little prick.

 _John's face twisted into an unconscious grimace as he brought the wooden instrument down repeatedly on the bared flesh beneath him, lips pulled back into an unholy smile as he felt the boy buck and twist in reaction. Sweat broke out on Dean's skin, and his movements became frantic._

 _The desperate, panicked sounds that his son could not quite control were the music he'd been waiting for._

 _John shifted up onto one knee, hot palm pressing Dean's torso into the mattress, and threw a heavy leg over his son's limbs._

 _The brief respite allowed Dean enough space for one gasping cry-"Please! Dad!" which only incensed the man further, and the instrument was applied with even more force, blows nearly overlapping. Dean's fingers clawed into the sheets, trying in vain to drag him away from the onslaught. One hand came back, attempting to provide some sort of protection, and John snarled at this open declaration of defiance._

 _He trapped his son's wrist, grinding the bones together in his fist, and brought the hard-backed brush down on the palm repeatedly. Blood had blossomed on the curled digits before John thrust the limb away, snarling, "Try that again and I'll break your fucking arm."_

 _John resumed the assault on the boy's backside, and Dean pulled a pillow into his mouth with his left arm, body heaving violently._

 _John was dimly aware that the boy's breathing wasn't right, he was puking or sobbing or hyperventilating or all three, and it was probably time to stop, but it just felt so_ good _, so_ satisfying _, such a_ release-

 _The brush snapped, head separating from the handle before bouncing to the floor._

 _John stared at the haft gripped in his fist, then down at the bloodied piece of wood lying beside his boot, uncomprehending. He turned his eyes to the figure on the bed, noting the desperate, irregular respiration, deep discoloration, and blood._

 _He stood, useless stick dropping from his hand as a familiar sensation of horrified disbelief overwhelmed him._

* * *

"What were you punishing him for?" Caroline asked into the guilt-laden stillness.

"He left Sam to go buy groceries. I thought he had stolen them and lied about it."

"So you were punishing him for leaving Sam alone, but also lying and stealing."

"Thought I was, yeah."

"What do you mean?"

"Turns out he hadn't lied. He'd been saving his lunch money in case the food ran out before I got back." Bile rose in John's throat at the memory.

He heard Caroline inhale deeply. "What happened next?"

"Bobby lectured me. I took off for awhile, left the boys with Singer while I finished the hunt."

"And when you came back?"

Remorse overwhelmed him. "We all pretended it had never happened."

"But something changed."

John shrugged. "Dean quit school to work. I tried leaving more money, not staying away so long, leaving 'em with Bobby more."

"Did you do anything to try to make it up to Dean?"

John sighed. "I gave him the Impala."

"Hmm...a tie to your past. Must feel like home to them. To you."

John shrugged. "He was seventeen. It was time. He'd been driving some bucket of rust that Bobby let him have."

"You trusted him with something that was important to you, that symbolized the life you used to have. That sent a powerful message to Dean, I'm sure."

"Maybe."

"But it was also...passing on a baton, in a manner of speaking."

"I don't know." He was wrung out. Exhausted.

Caroline rose. "This has been a lot, really. I've got a guest room designed for hunters that need to lay low; you'll be safe there. Get some rest, and we'll continue this tomorrow."

"Yes, ma'am."

He followed her meekly from the room.


	8. Chapter 8

**BREATHE CHAPTER 8**

* * *

"I can't go back." John forced the words past an insatiable cloud of shame, regret, and hopelessness that had been devouring his soul since Mary died.

Caroline was leaning forward, and her tone was vehement. "Yes, you can. Maybe not today, maybe not even tomorrow, but you _can_ go back."

His shoulders shook, humiliation fueling his despair as he felt tears coating his cheeks. "I'm destroying them."

"No, you are not." Her voice was stern, _angry_ , even. "They already lost their mother, John, lost every home they ever had. They cannot afford to lose _you,_ too. _That_ is what will destroy them, not _you_."

The cloud burst, shredding him, and he covered his face with both hands as he sobbed.

Caroline crossed to him, first placing a tentative arm around his shoulders, then pulling him into her, holding him tightly, rocking him, cheek against his hair as she whispered soothing banalities: "It's alright, John. Just let it go. It's going to be alright."

She held him as the dam broke on over ten years of suppressed grief, and wondered if he'd survive it.

* * *

Dean stood, wincing. "I really appreciate the effort, Bobby, and I can't remember the last time I turned down a pancake breakfast, but I'm still feelin' queasy."

"That normal for you the mornin' after busted ribs? Or did you crack your head, too?"

Dean ran his palm over his abdomen. "I took a couple to the face. Might have a bit of a concussion. Could be the shot to the kidneys that did it, too. I'm still pissin' blood."

Bobby shook his head, expression dark. "That - "

"Don't," Dean cut him off. "What's done is done. He's my _dad_ , Bobby." Dean turned from the table. "I'm gonna lay down for a bit. 'Less you need me for something?" He looked at Bobby over his shoulder, but then raised his finger in a classic pose: "Hang on. Gonna sneeze."

He did, explosively, and immediately doubled over, clutching the back of the chair with white knuckles.

"Dean? You alright?"

 _What the fuck?_ Dean slowly lowered himself to one knee, forearm pressed to his side and abdomen. _Jesus, that hurts._

"Dean?" Bobby was on his feet, leaning over the table, concern etched in every wrinkle.

Dean shook his head in a small motion. "Somethin's not right…" _Shouldn't hurt like this._

Bobby skirted the table to kneel beside him. "Care to elaborate?"

Dean closed his eyes, swallowing back bile, forcing slower, calmer breaths than his body demanded. "Doesn't feel right. Too sharp. Too deep." He swallowed again. "Gonna hurl."

Bobby grabbed one of the take out containers.

Dean emptied the scant contents of his stomach over Bobby's hand, with little making it into the small paper box held therein.

The older man, suddenly more father-figure than hunter, dropped the box in time to catch his tall young friend as Dean turned into a dead weight with no warning at all. He was whiter than Bobby had ever seen him.

Propping Dean up with his shoulder freed Bobby's arm enough for him to dig his cell phone out of his pocket. "They're all gonna be pissed at me for this one," and he tapped in the three magic numbers.

* * *

By the time flashing lights and sirens had invaded the room, Bobby was certain that he'd never regain all of the feeling in his feet. Not knowing what was wrong with Dean, he'd been afraid to move him. He'd sat with the combined weight of himself and a very muscular young man all resting on his tired old bones, counting the ticks of a clock he couldn't see while simultaneously keeping track of his friend's heart beat. He willed it to keep pace with his own, and eventually to just keep beating at all.

To the ferocious pounding on the door, he shouted: "Ya gotta break it down! I can't git up!"

Which they did with great enthusiasm and an impressive show of splintered wood.

"What happened to him?" came the inevitable question from a man dressed in classic ambulance attendant uniform.

It was a question Bobby had been dreading. "He got beat up."

"When?"

One man had a stethoscope against the boy's back, the other had begun cutting the young man's shirts away.

"Yesterday."

"Jesus," the ambulance attendant breathed, staring at the colorfully marked skin he had just uncovered. "Who did this?"

"Y'll have to ask him." All those agonizing minutes he'd spent kneeling under the boy's weight, and that was the best he'd been able to come up with.

"Bobby," the groan was so quiet that the ambulance attendants didn't seem to hear it.

"Backboard," one proclaimed, apparently announcing his intentions rather than giving an order, as he immediately left the room.

"Wha's goin' on?" Dean tried to raise his head and couldn't.

"Gotta get ya to a hospital, kid."

He was met with a soft groan in answer, followed by a question that tore straight to the older man's heart: "Where's Sam?"

 _I shoulda seen that comin'_. "He'll be there, kid."

"We're going to take him now." They had secured Dean's neck and back as best as they were able, and were preparing to maneuver their patient to a supine position.

"His ribs are busted."

"Where?"

"Right side, kinda low."

The medics exchanged glances. "Careful then," one observed, and the other nodded.

They moved.

Dean screamed.

 _He'll deny that later,_ Bobby thought, mind seeking an escape in mundane details. _Say it was too quiet, too low-pitched, more of a loud moan_...but to Bobby the desperate agony in the sound had been too raw, too primal, to qualify as anything but a scream.

Now flat on his back, Dean continued to moan softly, fighting to avoid the oxygen mask that one of the technicians was attempting to fit him with, arms and legs moving weakly as he strove to defend or flee, hunter's instincts stepping up as consciousness ebbed.

"It's okay, Dean," Bobby soothed in a way he never dared in less dire situations, "don't fight, boy. They're helping you."

The shirts were entirely cut away, and the seasoned hunter, a man who thought he'd seen so much that nothing could ever shock him again, that man was forced to turn his head.

That lean abdomen, normally concave when Dean lay in this position, was now distended, turgid, with a deep purple-black discoloration along the right side.

"Hemoabdomen," the syllables pulsed with the sirens outside the door, and the technician reached for a microphone clipped to his chest.

"We need the medevac."

 _Dean hates flying_ , but that turned out to be a frivolous concern as the boy in question suddenly went limp to the tone of anxious alarm bells.

 _Too late._


	9. Chapter 9

**BREATHE CHAPTER 9**

* * *

 _Robert, it's Caroline. I need to talk to you about John. Please call me back._

 _Caroline again. John is not doing well. Please call._

 _Caroline here. Same message as before._

* * *

She'd lost track of the number of rings, was preparing yet another message in her mind, when a gruff "Caroline?" altered the script.

Her mind stumbled but quickly righted itself. "Robert! Thank goodness! We need to talk about John. He's in bad shape. I had to sedate him."

"What for?"

She bit her lip, expression pensive. "He's suicidal."

"Good." The bitterness reverberated in the nebulous reality of cell phone connectivity.

"What? How can you say that? You've known this man for years, practically treat him like a son!" She paused as realization struck. "How's Dean?"

"Under the knife." His voice was ground glass.

"Robert-"

"The words 'hemoabdomen' or 'ruptured hepatic hematoma' mean anything to you, _Doctor_?" He spat sarcasm like venom.

She slumped into a ladder-backed chair. "Oh my God."

"The asshole musta kicked him with his fucking steel-toed boots on. You know that kid's been pissin' blood?"

"Bobby, I-"

"That father-of-the-year you got over there ruptured his son's liver, only the doc said it didn't tear all the way through at first, just bled inside, like a blood blister. Thin little sheet of tissue holdin' it back. Dean sneezed, tore that little membrane, and damned near bled out in the time it took the ambulance to get there." Bobby's voice cracked. He cleared it impatiently. "Now the asshole wants to kill himself? Let 'im."

"Bobby, do you have any idea what that would do to Dean? His father committing suicide after this? Dean would never forgive himself."

Caroline waited through two of the angry hunter's ragged breaths before she heard him speak again. "Fine. Lemme know what you need from me. But if Dean dies, I'm comin' over there and shootin' that bastard myself. Fair warning."

"I...I guess I need to know...I need to be able to reassure John that you'll take care of Dean and find Sam, because John will need to stay here for a little while. If he gets any worse, I may have to have him committed."

"'Course I got Dean, and I already got Rufus keepin' an eye on Sam."

"You found Sam?"

"No, Dean did, he just hadn't confirmed it. I took a look, then sent Rufus to keep him safe while I sussed things out up here. Damn' good thing I did, too."

"Yes, yes it was." It was Caroline's turn to softly breathe. "How...Before Dean...before he ended up needing an ambulance, how was he? How was he feeling about John?"

"The usual. 'I don't want to talk about it,' 'he's my dad,' 'he was right, I deserved it.' Real Patty Hearst-type shit, if you ask me."

"He needs his father to be infallible."

"Yeah, well, I got news for ya lady: he ain't."

Caroline slumped in the chair, eyes closed. "No. No, he's not." _And neither am I_ carried clearly in her tone.

Bobby sighed. "None of us are."

She came to a decision. "I can't tell him about Dean. Not yet."

"And if Dean dies?"

She shrugged, a motion devoid of hope. "Then...we'll do the best we can."

* * *

"Tell me some good memories you have of Dean."

They were back in the kitchen, John's face like melted wax, eyes turned to some inner horror. "Memories of Dean?"

"Good memories of you and Dean, specifically."

John had his head propped on one fist, elegant fingers of the other idly turning a white coffee cup whose contents had long since cooled to a level that rendered it unpotable. The tortured expression deepened. "I don't have any."

"I suspect that he would disagree."

No response from the hollow man seated across from her.

"If I asked Dean that question, asked him to share good memories that he had of the two of you, what do you think he would say?"

John shrugged. "Probably talk about training. Or hunts."

"Any incidents in particular that he likes to talk about?"

The silence rose between them, first stretching, then pacing, before John finally spoke. "First time I took him shooting. He loves to tell that story."

"How old was he?"

"He was six… I'd completely forgotten his birthday until Bobby reminded me, and I felt like the biggest piece of shit to ever live. I'd been working him up to shooting: had him handling empty guns; disassembling, cleaning, and reassembling them; dry-firing. He sat through a lot of lectures about gun safety."

He'd thought that would be enough, but Caroline waited, face expectant.

John shrugged one shoulder. "Told him I had a surprise for him, that I hadn't been able to get it ready for his birthday, so I was sorry it was a little late. Walked him out to the woods-I'd already set some bottles up for us. Told Dean I didn't shoot a pistol 'til I joined the Marines, and six was pretty young to become a man, but if anyone could, it was him."

He paused, chewing his lip, fighting back tears. "I held out the pistol, flat on my palm. Just a little .22, easy to handle, not much kick. I'll never forget the look on his face: so solemn. Kid was always so damned serious."

He smiled, shaking his head. "I watched him line up his first shot, could almost see him doing all the things I'd told him about, tickin' 'em off of some list in his head one by one. He took that first shot and went right down the line without a pause. Hit every fuckin' bottle." He nodded to himself, still smiling. "Kid was a natural."

"What did you say to him?"

"I don't know. Probably not much. I mean, I didn't have to, you know? We stayed out there for an hour, me makin' it harder, more realistic, him trying and concentrating and getting better and better. Used up all the ammo I'd brought. Gettin' ready to go, he took the magazine out and opened the chamber just like I'd shown him, then handed the gun to me. I knelt down, eye-to-eye, and put it back in his hand. 'It's yours,' I told him. 'You're not a boy anymore. Not when you shoot better than most men I know.'"

Caroline smiled. "That's beautiful, John. It's no wonder he loves to tell that story."

John watched his fingers toy with the coffee mug.

"Does he tell any other stories?"

"Yeah...don't know if they count as good memories, though."

"What does he say?"

"Stuff about hunts, mostly. Close calls, weird shit. Times we really shouldn't have come out alive, but we did."

"So things he's proud of."

"Yeah."

"Are they times that you've been proud of him?"

John turned that one over in his mind a few times. "Huh. Guess they are, yeah."

"What about Sam? What kinds of stories does Dean tell about himself and Sam?"

John laughed. "Times he's pissed Sam off, mostly. Dean loves to pull pranks on his little brother. Guess that's one normal sibling thing that they do."

"And Bobby? What memories does Dean share about himself and Bobby?"

"Food-Bobby's a decent cook. Fixin' cars. Bobby's taken him shootin', too." John laughed, a rich, chest-deep sound. "He tells a story about a time Bobby made him do some research, and he opened the wrong book. Ended up learning all about _Kinbaku_."

" _Kinbaku_?"

"Japanese bondage. Apparently Bobby's got a thing for it. The man can even speak Japanese. Did you know that?"

"It may have come up in conversation once or twice." She smiled, and John quirked an eyebrow. "How old was Dean?"

"I dunno….thirteen, fourteen. Old enough to understand what it was about."

Caroline shook her head, bemused.

John chuckled. "I learned about it when I came home to find Sam trussed up like a Thanksgiving turkey, gagged and pissed as hell. Dean had convinced Sam that it was a good idea for his brother to learn how to escape if some monster caught him and tied him up." He chuckled. "I think Sam's still pissed about that one."

They were both quiet, each reflecting on what had been said while allowing the other a chance to speak.

Caroline broke first. "From what you've told me, Dean has good memories of all of you, but the only times he's felt proud of himself have involved you."

John dropped his eyes, long lashes shielding his soul from her scrutiny.

"Is he still a good shot?"

John grunted. "Best I've ever seen. Better than me, even."

"Does he know that?"

"What? That he's a good shot? Or that I think he's a better marksman than his old man?"

"Both."

His fingers were back to caressing the smooth ceramic of the mug. "Yeah, he knows. He's confident, never hesitates, no matter how tough the shot is. And he's heard me tell other hunters how good he is. Hell, I'll even move out of his way when we've only got one crack at it. He knows."

"Who taught him to shoot?"

John looked at her, brows furrowed. "I did. I already told you that."

"Yes, you did. _You_ taught him. _You_ helped him develop that skill, _you_ gave him confidence, _you_ gave him a reason to feel proud."

John ground his teeth. "That was pretty underhanded there, Doc."

"But you can't deny it, can you?"

He closed his eyes, breathing deeply. _No more fucking crying._

"I'm going to give you a break now, but I want you to know that this is where we are heading: you are not destroying either of your sons, and they need you in their lives. You aren't leaving here until I'm convinced that you believe that."

And the tears fell like rain.


	10. Chapter 10

**BREATHE CHAPTER 10**

* * *

"I'm Detective Hedley. I need to ask you some questions, Mr. Kayser."

 _I figured_ , Bobby thought. "Well, ask 'em here. I ain't leaving."

The investigator looked over at the man in the hospital bed, absorbing the even respirations framing an absolute stillness. "As long as you're certain that we won't disturb him." Without waiting for an answer, he sat, crossing one ankle over the opposite knee to create a table for his notebook. "What can you tell me about the events that led to your nephew's injuries?"

The steady pulse of the monitors provided a comforting backdrop. Dean was finally stable.

"He asked me to come, didn't tell me nothin', passed out, scared the hell outta me. I got no idea what happened to him."

The level stare was assessing. _Bet he's more accurate than a lie detector,_ but Bobby'd been interrogated before.

"Are you aware of the extent of his injuries?"

"Am now, wasn't until about an hour ago. Surgeon came and talked to me."

"Did he-"

"She," Bobby interjected.

"Pardon me. Did she tell you that the rape test was negative?"

"The _what_?" Bobby stood, incensed. "They had no right-"

"Mr. Kayser, please," the detective held up a hand, palm out, and tilted his head toward the subject of their conversation.

Bobby glanced over at Dean. The beeping of the heart monitor had sped up.

Bobby sat back down.

"The hospital is under a legal obligation to test anyone showing certain types of injuries. Your nephew fit the criteria."

"And what criteria would that be?"

"He has injuries that could only have been sustained if he were...unclothed."

A muscle in Bobby's jaw twitched, but he held his tongue. _Only saw the kid's back. Fuckin' Winchester._

"Is your nephew enrolled in one of the universities here?"

 _Shit. I sure hope I'm not diggin' you a hole you can't get out of, Dean._ "S'posed to be."

"Any fraternities he's expressed an interest in joining?"

"Not that he's mentioned."

The detective jotted something down. "Know anything about his sexual habits?"

 _More than I'd like._ "Not really. You lookin' for anything specific?"

The officer dropped his foot to the floor to lean forward, elbows resting on his knees, notebook now dangling from a lax hand. "I just had my ten year anniversary as a detective in this town. Worked my way up through the ranks; been in law enforcement for...damn. Goin' on twenty-five years now." The skin around his eyes tightened. "In my experience the kind of injuries your nephew sustained fall into one of three categories: hate crime, S and M scene that got out of hand, or hazing."

 _Feedin' me a story. Thank you, Detective._ "I'm not followin' you."

The man began ticking off his points. "Hate crime: with these kinds of injuries, I'd be looking for a group of homophobic rednecks. Sadomasochism scene that got out of hand is self-explanatory. Lack of...ah...DNA evidence consistent with sexual activity makes that less likely, at least as the cause of these particular injuries. Hazing...well, his blood alcohol level was zero, but he did test positive for opioids, and we don't know for certain when the activity occurred. He could've metabolized the alcohol by the time he got here."

"So you don't think it was the sex thing. I guarantee my nephew's straight. So that leaves hazing."

The detective returned to his notebook. "Your nephew may or may not be straight, but he has no defensive injuries, and no sign that he was restrained in any way when he sustained this beating. That leads me to believe that either he was knocked unconscious before someone took a belt to him, or he allowed it to happen. He a fighter?"

"Whaddaya mean?"

"Scar tissue on his knuckles, some callused fractures. He's got a healed boxer's break to his left hand. He's either been in a lotta fights or he trains real hard."

"Trains. Golden Gloves. Started as a kid, just kept with it."

"So he wouldn't be easy to knock out. The doctor said your nephew didn't have any evidence of a concussion. He either let someone do this to him, or he was drugged with something that was out of his system by the time we tested him."

"Well, he ain't had these kinds of injuries before. I mean, stuff from his fights, but not...the rest of it."

"So no indication that he may have been into something kinky or rough? No leather, handcuffs, whips and chains?"

"Not that I've seen or heard about."

The detective closed his book decisively. "Well, I guess it'll be a mystery until he wakes up, but my money's on hazing." He stood, extending a hand to Bobby. "Thanks for your cooperation. I'll be in touch."

Bobby took the proffered hand, gripping it with feigned gratitude. "Thank you for looking into this, Detective. Sure wouldn't want it to happen to someone else." _And thanks for feedin' me my lines, dickhead._

* * *

 _A steady beeping that had to be an alarm clock picked away at the soft wall of sleep he'd crawled behind, and he struggled to locate it so he could silence it, but his eyes wouldn't open, and his body felt heavy and so far away, and the rhythmic tone was becoming more insistent, but his mind was detached and his eyes, his limbs, they wouldn't obey, and he felt wrong, something was wrong, and he'd felt like this before when he was badly injured, and if he was this wrong, this heavy, this injured, then-_

"Sam!"

A warm hand pressed against his shoulder. "Easy, boy, easy. Sam's safe. Everything's alright."

"Bobby?" His voice was raw.

"Yeah, Dean, it's me. You're in a hospital, but you're gonna be alright."

Hospital. "Can you-" dry tissue cracked, choking him.

He felt a straw against his lips. "Drink, just a little. I'll get you some ice chips in a minute."

Cool water burned parched tissues until they began to absorb the offering, softening in surrender. "Thanks, Bobby. Can you turn the damned monitors off? That beeping is driving me nuts."

Bobby chuckled. "Well, at least I know it's still you in there." With an ease borne of familiarity, he silenced the machines while leaving them functional. "Better?"

"Much. Thanks." He closed his eyes. "Where's Dad?"

 _Not Sam?_ "With my friend, the psychiatrist."

"Does he know I'm here?"

"No."

"Good. I don't want him to know."

Bobby fought to keep his anger in check. "He's going to know eventually, Dean. He ain't gettin' away with this."

"Bobby, no. You know what he's like after this shit. He's gotta be a fuckin' mess, and it was my fault - "

"Don't you _ever_ say that, boy!" the words were growled through clenched teeth. "You did _not_ deserve this!"

"It got outta hand - "

"Stop! You just stop right fuckin' now, or am I goin' over there and ventilating his head with a shotgun! This ain't _ever_ happenin' again, you hear me? Not ever!"

Dean turned his face away, unable to stop the tears from running down the sides of his face. _Fuckin' morphine._

Bobby rose, pacing, struggling to get his emotions under control, but also giving Dean enough privacy to do the same.

When he stopped feeling the need to tear something apart with his bare hands, he returned to his friend's bedside.

Dean's head was turned, eyes closed, breathing regular. Thinking he was asleep, Bobby just stood, observing.

"You find Sam?" Dean's voice was quiet, congested with strangled emotion.

"Actually, _you_ did. Triangulatin' his phone was the key. I got Rufus down there watchin' him. He's fine."

Dean turned emerald eyes on the man who'd always been like a father to him. "Why didn't you bring him back?"

"Into _this_ mess? Are you kiddin' me? What do you think Sam would do if he saw you like this? Knew that your father came damned close to killin' you?"

Dean turned away, and Bobby cursed himself. "God damnit..I'm sorry, kid. Been a rough coupla days." He pulled a chair closer to the bed and slumped into it. "We'll go get 'im, me an' you, when you're healed up a bit, okay? In the meantime it ain't a bad thing for your little brother to get a taste of livin' on his own, and I got people watchin' out for him. He may go hungry-ain't easy makin' money when you're seventeen in a new town-but we'll make sure he don't starve."

 _What about Dad? When's he comin' back?_ But Dean wasn't going down that rabbit hole again. "I miss him." _Where'd that come from?_ "Damned opioids always turn me into a fuckin' princess."

"Well, I'll let ya sleep it off in a minute. A police detective has been in here askin' questions, and he seems pretty sharp. He fed me a story we can use if you're up for hearin' it."

"Sure." He kept his face turned, eyes closed, but was listening intently.

"He thinks this was some sort of hazing thing."

"Hazing?"

"Yeah, it's a college thing. Fraternities do it to members."

"Like an initiation?"

"Exactly. I been lookin' into it since the guy left. Seems like a pretty common thing to get the newbs liquored up and beat the shit outta them. You didn't have any alcohol in your system, but as long as it was over twelve hours between you supposedly gettin' black-out drunk and me callin' the ambulance, we got that explained. Helpful part is that most kids protect the fraternity, and so do the schools."

"Sounds perfect."

"Yeah. You just gotta clam up, maybe make up a different story, whatever."

"I'm not registered at any college, though."

"Well, I'm countin' on the schools to stonewall as best they can, protectin' themselves and their precious reputations. Oughta buy us enough time to get our asses outta Dodge."

"How long the docs think I gotta stay?"

"Coupla days, maybe a week."

"Be gone tomorrow."

"We'll see, boy. I'm not rushin' it this time. They had to take out part of your liver."

 _So fuckin' tired._ "They can do that? Thought I needed a liver."

"She didn't take all of it, and it regrows."

"Like a lizard's tail? Cool." He was having trouble focusing on Bobby's words. "Wait: did you say 'she'? My doctor is a chick? Is she hot?"

Bobby chuckled. "You are in-freakin'-corrigible."

"Not true. I am completely corrigible. Think she gives her own sponge baths?"

"Go back to sleep, ya idjit, 'fore you embarrass me. Oh, wait: the officer asked if you were a fighter. He noticed some stuff, said you either fought a lot or trained hard. I told him you'd been boxing since you were a kid, Golden Gloves an' all that."

"M'kay." He was fading out again. "Bobby?"

"Yeah."

"Tell 'em to dial down the morphine, 'kay?"

Bobby chuckled. "Will do, boy. Just get some rest now. I gotcha."

Obediently, Dean slid back behind the wall of sleep.


	11. Chapter 11

**BREATHE CHAPTER 11**

* * *

"Tell me about raising your boys."

John grunted. _Break time's over. Back to the torture chamber._ "What do you mean?"

"Well, after Mary died, you had choices. Did you look for a relative to take them? Consider foster care? You chose to keep them with you, even though you had to have known how difficult that would be. Why?"

"I...I don't know. I wasn't really thinkin' too well at first. Guess I couldn't stand the thought of losing anyone else."

 _That first night, crawling into a motel room as the sun came up, Sammy cryin', probably needing a bottle or a clean diaper, Dean's face so pale and somber in the weak sunlight. Sitting on the floor, rocking Sammy in my lap, both of us crying, Dean looking so lost…_

John realized that she was pressuring him with silence again, holding him ransom with it. "I cried alot." He shifted uncomfortably in his seat. "Sam'd cry, just a baby, needing things that babies need, and I would cry because Mary wasn't there to help."

"What about Dean?"

John closed his eyes, bit his lips. "He was just...quiet. He'd stand there and look at us like he was trying to figure out what to do. Then one time he brought a bottle. Don't even know how he figured out how to make one, ya know? He was so fucking small, so young. But he did it, and then he started taking Sam away from me, feeding him, changing him, while I fell apart…."

"Did it help? Having Dean take over in caring for Sam?"

"Sometimes."

"And other times?"

Shame crept up his throat. "Other times it made me mad."

She waited.

"He never asked for anything. Never cried. Didn't seem to need me, ready at four to be…"

The shame had grown into a suffocating pressure.

"Ready to be a better parent than I was." The words forced themselves through, completing his humiliation.

She watched him.

He shifted again, lacing his fingers together, examining them closely. Anything to avoid Caroline's eyes.

"I knew he needed something, but I didn't know what it was, or maybe it was that he expected me to be like I had been before, and I couldn't...I wasn't that guy any more."

"What guy was that?"

 _Goddamn crying again. When did I turn into such a fucking princess?_ "We were buddies. Played all the time. Ball, wrestling, tickle fights, Legos. Mary-" his voice choked to a stop, the pain still so sharp that it stole his breath.

The silence pressed on him, cramming its way down his throat, pushing past the grief to force an inhale.

"She was so good about...about letting me be the _fun_ parent. She took care of the discipline, and the things that needed to be done to keep the boy healthy, and she played with him, too. I'd helped with feeding and diapers when he was still in 'em, but when he got this age, this fun age, she just-" his voice broke again, and he rubbed at his eyes impatiently. "She told me that she loved watching us together, that nothing made her happier than hearing the two of us laugh at each other."

"So you were his buddy and his hero right from the start."

John exploded to his feet, chair slamming back into the wall that he turned to slam his fist against.

"John-" Caroline stood, hand out.

He sobbed. "I couldn't...I couldn't be his hero. I couldn't save his mom, I couldn't hold him and let him cry, I couldn't make him smile, I couldn't….I couldn't."

There was nothing for Caroline to do but stand there and watch him weep.

* * *

She'd suggested they move to the garden. "Before you leave, I'm going to give you some tools to use, alright? Exercise, sleep, and sunshine are three important ones. Let's walk."

Caroline's garden was as comfortable as her home: beautiful, but not overly immaculate. It invited touch, soothed with bright colors and warm scents. Trees spread protective limbs and thick grass cushioned world-weary feet as they wandered, aimless yet full of purpose.

"Initially you felt that you were failing Dean, that you had lost your status as his hero. What did you do to remedy that?"

John shrugged, inhaling deeply, face tipped up to bask in the warm afternoon sun. "Only other type of hero I knew how to be was a soldier. Figured I'd have to emulate my drill sergeant. I couldn't be Dean's buddy anymore, not knowing how dangerous the world really is. Figured I owed it to the kid to give him the best chance he'd have at just stayin' alive."

"So that was something you deliberately decided to do?"

John stopped, fingers caressing a particularly vibrant leaf. "No, not really. I wasn't doin' much thinkin' then. Just started to happen." He released the leaf, resumed his stroll. "I was focused on learning about whatever killed Mary, and I kept learning about other things, too, and started training myself, going back to the drills I'd done as a marine. Somehow Dean was just always there, so I started training him, too."

They'd come to a bench. "Let's sit a moment." Caroline settled herself on one end of the bench, turning to face John. "When someone loses a loved one to violence, it is normal for that person to feel somehow responsible, as if that death could have been prevented if only you had been better prepared."

John nodded. "Sounds about right."

"So, in that situation, people can become obsessed with trying to prevent something like that from happening again. You couldn't leave the boys with anyone else, because you were certain - and rightly so - that no one understood what you did about the dangers we face. No one else would be able to protect them."

"Yeah."

"And yet you also did not feel capable of protecting your sons, because of what had happened to Mary."

In answer, John hung his head.

"All of that is perfectly normal, and there is nothing wrong with that. Here is where things start to go awry: Dean's overly mature reaction emphasized your feelings of incompetence and helplessness. Those are emotions that contribute to your sense of vulnerability to random acts of violence. Fear of a loss that you are, at least in your mind, not competent enough to prevent, leads to anger."

"And I turn that anger on Dean."

"Yes. He has come to symbolize your short-comings. When you strike out at him, it's really you that you are angry with."

"Jesus. That is all kinds of fucked up."

"Yes, and it's a cycle that perpetuates and amplifies. The better he does, the worse you feel: inadequate to protect the ones you love. You push yourself harder, you push Dean harder, desperate to keep all of you safe. He rises to the challenge, and instead of feeling proud of both Dean and yourself, you relive the experience of being a helpless parent to an inappropriately competent child. It builds until something triggers a violent reaction, and that trigger seems to be-"

"Fear for Sammy's safety."

"Yes."

John wiped a hand down his face. "Told you they were better off without me."

"No, that's not what I'm saying. What I am saying is this: part of that sense of helplessness comes from feeling as if you have no control over certain aspects of your life. You had no control over what happened to Mary, and there's nothing we can do about that. But you also feel that you weren't given a choice in how to raise your sons. The circumstances of your life dictated that."

She placed her hand lightly on John's forearm. "In our very first session we discussed the fact that choosing to pursue revenge has consequences. Well, you never actively chose revenge. From what you've told me, you didn't sit down, think about your options, weight the costs versus benefits, and decide that revenge was your best option. The consequence of instinctively seeking revenge is that you sacrificed your ability to choose the course of your own life. That absence of choice increases your sense of vulnerability."

"I'm not going to let Mary's killer go free."

"No, and I wouldn't ask you to. But right now you need to sit down and think about that. You have to weigh the pros and cons, examine what the potential outcomes might be, and deliberately choose whether to follow this path...or create a new one."

She tugged at his sleeve. "Look at me, John."

Deep brown eyes met hers, swimming in hurt and hope. "What you did to Dean was wrong. I know that you know that, and I know that you hate yourself for it."

Hurt over-powered hope to spill down his cheeks, but he held her gaze.

"But Dean loves you, and he needs you. We can fix this, we can make sure that it never happens again, but not until we understand why it happened in the first place and remedy those mistakes. This is the first one, the foundation for everything that followed. So I am giving you an assignment: examine the course of revenge. Take that first step in regaining control of your life, of moving towards a sense of competence and confidence. Choose the path that you will follow."


	12. Chapter 12

**BREATHE CHAPTER 12**

* * *

"Good afternoon, gentlemen."

Dean took in the curvacious, dark-haired female and a slow smile curled his sensuous lips.

She was surprised to feel her chest tighten and a warm flush creep up her neck. "I'm Dr. Kim, Dean. I met your uncle earlier."

The young man looked startled. "I thought you were a nurse."

"Here to give 'im a sponge bath," the unkempt older man added.

"Bobby!" The young man's cheeks flushed, emphasizing the green of his eyes.

 _He scrambles my brain this badly when he's all beat up, can't imagine what he'd do to me without the bruises._ She squared her shoulders. "It's a common mistake. I'm actually your surgeon, and if all goes well, this will be the only time you'll see me."

His face actually fell, and she added, "As long as there are no surgical complications, you'll be in the care of one of the staff physicians."

"Okay." He sounded disappointed, and her heart rate sped up.

 _Get it together, Lynne! This is not the first attractive patient you've had!_

She reached for the controls on the bed. "I need to lower this to take a look at your incision. How are you feeling?"

"Hey, Doc?" the older man queried. When she looked over at him, he continued, "you mind if I step out? All this medical stuff makes me a little queasy."

There was something odd in his facial expression, and she flicked a glance at her patient in time to catch him giving his uncle a wide-eyed look while mouthing something.

 _What the hell is that all about?_ "Yes, of course. This shouldn't take long."

She finished lowering the bed to the sound of her patient's moan. "How are feeling, Dean?"

"Just peachy." He had his eyes closed.

"I'm going to take a look at your abdomen, alright?"

"Sure."

She pulled the covers down, piling them on his lap, then unsnapped the right sleeve of his gown. That allowed her to peel the garment up and over to his left side, leaving the right half of his torso exposed.

"The discoloration doesn't seem to have spread," she observed, running gentle fingertips over his skin.

Gooseflesh appeared and his nipple hardened. He was nearly vibrating with tension, and had kept his eyes closed.

"Just relax. I promise I'll be gentle."

In response he draped his left arm over his face, stifling a groan.

"How much pain are you in?"

She pressed gently around the bandage over his incision before moving out to palpate his abdomen.

The muscles there were thick ridges beneath her questing fingers.

"Not much," he mumbled.

She moved up, coasting over his ribs. The well-defined intercostal muscles served to emphasize the defect created by the fractures. She probed carefully, concerned about internal bleeding from the sharp rib ends, and noticed his sharp inhale.

"I'm sorry. I know that hurts. I'm done now." She stroked the smooth skin once before turning to the cart she'd brought in. "I'm going to use an ultrasound machine to make sure your liver has stopped bleeding, and then I'll change your bandage, alright?"

His body was tight, coated with a thin sheen of sweat.

"Dean?"

"Yeah?" his voice was muffled by a well-muscled arm.

"Are you alright?"

"Yeah."

"Let me see your face, please."

His arm slowly withdrew.

She pulled out a penlight. "Eyes, please."

They popped open obediently, and she was immersed in their seductive verdance.

It was suddenly very difficult to breathe.

He licked his lips, and difficult escalated to impossible.

His pupils dilated. "Doc?"

"I-Sorry." She leaned back away from him, breaking the spell. "On a scale of one to ten, how is your pain?"

"Depends," he said, voice low and a little rough, eyes following her.

"On?"

That lazy smile came back, and she bit her lip. "What you plan on doing about it."

She stepped back, bumping her cart. "I...I can get you some...some morphine."

He chuckled, and the sound resonated inside of her. "I hate that stuff. Makes me all fuzzy and uncoordinated."

"So your pain is…?"

"Undetectable when you're looking at me like that."

She knew her cheeks were flaming, and there was nothing she could do about it. "Um...let me...ultrasound." With shaking hands she reached for the bottle of lubricant, discomfort growing as she squeezed it onto his skin. He was watching her, gaze so intent she could feel it, even with her own eyes deliberately averted. She used the machine's probe to spread the gel, then scanned carefully, stopping to record images that would allow the machine to calculate a volume. "No significant increase in fluid. Looks like you're doing well."

Steadfastly refusing to look at him, she dipped a soft cloth into the basin of warm water on the cart. She ran it over his abdomen, gently removing the ultrasound gel, and felt his muscles tremble beneath her hand.

She swallowed, licking her lips, and had to physically turn her shoulders to force herself not to flick a glance towards the blankets piled over the man's groin.

 _You are a professional! Stop acting like a freaking school girl!_

She pulled on a pair of sterile gloves. "I'll change your bandage now."

His teeth caught his lower lip and he nodded, holding her gaze.

She reached for the bandage. _Stop shaking!_ She peeled it away, doing her best to avoid hurting him. He made no sound, but his respiratory rate increased.

She probed the wound gently. He held himself very still.

She could feel him watching her.

"It looks good," she announced, risking a glance at him, hungry for those green eyes yet afraid of being lost in them again.

He was still biting his lip, eyes burning.

She replaced the bandage, then reached for the edge of his gown.

He caught her wrist, grip firm and very warm. "Thank you. Your hands are amazing." He lowered his own, taking hers with it, until her palm rested on his sternum between the swell of his pectoral muscles.

He released her, and her fingers splayed of their own accord. His heart beat strongly under her palm, and she closed her eyes. Nearly against her will that errant hand strayed, appreciating velvet skin over taut muscle, stopping when sensitive fingertips caught on the tight nub of a very masculine nipple, and his chest rose and fell rapidly.

She licked her lips, mouth suddenly very wet, and withdrew her hand.

"I have to go." Her voice was nearly unrecognizable.

"Will I get to see you again?"

 _I shouldn't._ But she was single, and so was he, as far as she knew, and if he weren't her patient, it would certainly be alright, so maybe….

She hurriedly jotted down her number.

Without saying a word, she left.

* * *

"Mr. Kayser," the detective held out his hand. "Surprised to see you out here."

Bobby grunted as he shook the man's hand. _Me, too._ "Doctor had to do stuff to 'im. Asked me to step out."

"I see." He leaned against the wall next to Bobby. "Guess I'd better wait then, too. By the way, what university did you say your nephew is attending?"

Bobby was saved from answering by the young female surgeon who exited the room, face flushed, barely glancing at them as she strode briskly down the hallway.

Bobby shook his head and sighed. "Guess he's feelin' better."

The detective shot him a quizzical look which Bobby cheerfully ignored.

Dean was snoring softly when they entered his room. Bobby put a hand on one blanket-draped foot, shaking it lightly. "Hey, kid. There's a detective here wants to talk to ya."

"You don't have to-" the officer began, but Dean snorted his way to consciousness.

"Hey," he mumbled, fumbling for the bed controls. "Bobby, ya wanna?" He gestured at the bed.

"Yeah, sure."

Dean winced as the bed hummed, raising him to a sitting position. "Detective...ah...Hedley, right?"

The man held out his hand. "Nice to meet you, Dean."

Dean completed the ritual, mindful of the IV catheter in the back of his hand. "My uncle told me you're trying to figure out what happened. I'm not pressing charges."

The detective pulled a chair closer to the bed before seating himself in it. "You almost died, son. Why wouldn't you press charges?"

"'Cause it was my fault, and I agreed to it. Who'm I gonna charge? Myself?"

"You agreed to nearly being beaten to death?"

"Well... I mean...no, that's not how it was worded, but-"

"How was it worded then, Dean? Initiation? Proving yourself?"

Dean looked away.

"You do realize that hazing is illegal, right? That you yourself could be charged as an accomplice?"

"That's enough," Bobby stepped in. "First of all, we all know you can't charge him with jack, and second, even if you could, no jury would lookit what happened to him and think he deserved even more punishment."

The detective sighed. "Look, son, we been battling hazing in this town for a long time. It's a serious problem. Kids get hurt, emotionally traumatized, and even killed over this kind of thing every year. You want to sit back and allow all of this to happen to somebody else? Or you want to step up and help put an end to it?"

"Ain't gonna happen to anyone else. This was just me."

"Right." Hedley's voice was ugly with disdain.

"It wasn't hazing," Dean offered. "I slept with a brother's chic. He found out. There's consequences, and I knew it. I had it comin'."

"Which house? Which fraternity?"

Dean looked away.

"What university are you enrolled at?"

More silence.

The detective snapped his notebook closed, standing to loom over the injured man. "You're an idiot. Protecting someone who came very close to killing you over, what? Some out-dated code of honor? So this guy gets to walk around thinking that what he did to you is okay, that it's an acceptable way to settle a dispute. And you're okay with that? With letting a violent sociopath roam around, doing who knows what to people?"

Dean kept his eyes averted and held his silence.

The officer turned to Bobby. "And you-you're just going to let your nephew do this?"

Bobby bridled. "I don't 'let' Dean do anything. He's an adult, he makes his own decisions. 'Sides, whadda you expect me to do, beat it out of him?" His sarcasm was acerbic.

The two men stood, each with their hands on their hips, glaring at each other over Dean's recumbent form.

Eventually the detective shook his head, disgusted. "Someone else is going to end up in the hospital-or the morgue. And that's gonna be on you." He spat the words at Dean before turning to stride from the room, back stiff with anger.

The two men watched until the last reverberation of the slamming door faded away. Then they looked at each other and grinned.

"Nice job," Bobby offered.

"You, too, Mr. Kayser."

Bobby sat. "So...How you feelin'?"

"Damn, Bobby. That surgeon-"

"Not what I was askin', Dean."

The young man grinned wolfishly. "Pretty sure I could go any time now. Got her number."

Bobby snorted, shaking his head. "How about if we wait and see if you can hold some food down? You do that, and we can talk about gettin' ya outta here."

"Fair enough." He lapsed into silence, face pensive.

"You wonderin' about yer old man, ain't ya?"

Dean licked his lips.

"Caroline's workin' on him."

"What's that mean?"

Bobby shook his head. "Dean, he 'bout killed you. That ain't normal, alright?"

Dean fought to control his temper. "He's gotta...It's not like I didn't _know_ , Bobby."

"What the hell are you talkin' about, boy?"

"I know how he is about me leavin' Sammy alone. I knew what would happen if he found out, and I did it anyway. It's nobody's fault but my own."

"Jesus Christ!" Bobby was back on his feet, pacing. "How are you so goddamned brainwashed?"

"I'm not! That's his big rule, everybody fuckin' knows it, I know it-"

"Dean, lemme ask you this," Bobby stormed back over to the bedside and gripped the railing hard. "If yer pop had left Sam with me, and you stopped in and found Sam home alone, would you beat my ass next time you saw me?"

Dean scowled. "Jesus, Bobby. Of course not. That's nuts."

"And why is that nuts?"

"Because…" he struggled to find a reason that didn't also apply to himself. "I'm younger than you. You're the authority figure here."

"So would yer dad have the right to beat my ass?"

That silenced him. "I...Well...Did something happen to Sam? In your scenario, did he disappear or get hurt or something?"

"Let's say he ran away, like he did with you. If you found your dad beatin' the ever livin' hell outta me, would you just let 'im, 'cause I deserved it? I knew the rule and I ignored it, figuring a seventeen-year-old kid didn't need a fuckin' baby-sitter. What would you do, Dean?"

Dean tried to imagine that. His father and Bobby had some pretty heated arguments every now and then. Bobby'd threatened his father more than once, usually for something John had done to Dean. But would Dean step in? Would he stop John if his father was hurting Bobby?

"I don't know, Bobby. I don't know."

"He ain't a god, you know. He makes mistakes."

Dean shook his head. "Not about big things. Important things."

"I know you think you gotta believe that, 'cause somehow it makes you feel safer, but you're wrong, Dean."

Dean had had enough. "And what exactly is it that you want me to do, Bobby?" he exploded. "You keep bringin' this shit up, over and over again, and it's too late, it's already been done, and what do you want me to do, huh? You want me to tell the man to fuck off? Want me to throw a fist at his face? Run off with Sammy? Just what the fuck are you tryin' to get me to do?" In his distress he'd tried to sit up, lean forward, and now he groaned, pressing a hand to his side as the color drained from his face. "Fuck." He exhaled, leaning back. Sweat broke out on his forehead.

Bobby's face was creased with concern. "Relax, Dean. Relax." He pulled a handkerchief from his pocket and gently dabbed at the boy's brow.

Dean closed his eyes, panting.

"You need more pain meds? I'll call the nurse…"

"No. Fuckin' hate morphine. Just gimme a minute."

Bobby stood by- _Hovering_ \- watching with pained regret as the young hunter consciously brought his physical distress under control.

Eventually the color returned to his face and the tension left his torso. Dean swallowed audibly before clearing his throat. "Maybe...maybe I oughta stay one more night."

"Good plan, genius." Bobby stroked the cloth repeatedly over Dean's forehead. "I don't know what I want from you, kid." His voice was soft, the gruffness gone. "I just… I don't want this to ever happen to you again."

"Me, either," Dean admitted. "So what's this Caroline person doin' again?" He had his eyes closed, and his breathing was still a little rapid.

"She's helpin' him figure out how to control his temper."

"But he'll still train me? Still be tough as hell, ganking monsters most hunters avoid? Still…" _be a hero._

"Yeah. He'll still be all a' that."

"You promise, Bobby?" and his voice was small.

Bobby felt the boy's hand slide over to his, and he gripped it tightly. "I promise, kid."


	13. Chapter 13

**BREATHE CHAPTER 13**

* * *

"So, have you completed your assignment?" Caroline set two cut glass tumblers on the table.

"Yeah." He opened his journal. "I worked it out like an algorithm. Took me hours." He studied the page as if it had been written by someone else.

"And?"

"And….I could lose them. You said to weigh the pros and cons, and that's...that's one of the cons: I could lose my boys."

Caroline had located another bottle of Branton's, and she poured them each a glass.

John ignored his. "I could...I could let 'em go. Let Sam go to college, let Dean do...whatever it is that he wants to do. And I could keep huntin' myself, or I could stop…."

He was smoothing the open pages of the journal repetitively, like petting a cat.

"But it feels like…" His voice broke. _I am so fucking tired of crying._ "Like I'd be letting Mary die. Like as long as I'm looking for this thing that...that killed her...then she's not really dead, like she could still be out there, still come back, if I just get rid of this thing…"

His breathing was uneven.

He stroked the pages.

Caroline waited.

"I know that's not gonna happen." His voice was a whisper. "I know she's...she's gone. But I still can't...I still gotta kill that thing. For her, I gotta do it."

"So, just to be clear, you're choosing revenge for Mary's death over the possibility of losing both of your sons?"

He swiped angrily at his face, refusing to look at her. "Makes me some kind of asshole, right?"

His admission echoed in the stillness.

"I'll do everything I can to protect them. I will. Teach 'em, make 'em strong. And if they wanna leave, they can. I won't make it easy, won't help 'em desert their mother, but I won't force 'em to stay. To be hunters."

He emptied his glass in one swallow.

Caroline refilled it.

Callused fingers scraped worn paper.

"She was mine first, you know?" His voice had faded to a rough whisper.

Caroline tilted her head in acknowledgement, an unnecessary gesture, as John had not bothered to look to see how she responded.

"She was my wife before she was their mother. I love my boys, I do, and I'm proud of 'em...but she came first. Mary comes first."

He looked up, eyes dry.

"That's my choice."

* * *

"Hey, Mother. I'm home."

"Zellynnexia, my child," full lips brushed across Dr. Kim's forehead, then pulled away abruptly. "What is it, 'Lynnexia?"

Lynne draped her purse and coat over the back of a chair before dropping into a seat at the table. "I met someone…"

"Show me." Her mother rested long, elegant fingers on Lynne's forearm.

Both women closed their eyes.

 _Her fingers splayed of their own accord. His heart beat strongly under her palm, and she closed her eyes. Nearly against her will that errant hand strayed, appreciating velvet skin over taut muscle-_

"Winchester," the older female breathed, breaking contact.

"You know him?"

"Dean Winchester. He's a hunter. We have been looking for him."

* * *

"Just 'cause they pulled the catheter out of yer dick don't mean ya gotta leave tonight," Bobby argued. "They left the IV catheter in your hand for a reason."

"Yeah, whatever." Dean promptly yanked said IV out. "Help me up."

"Fer what?" A rough palm pressed Dean back into the mattress. "Ya fergit what happened a couple hours ago when you tried to sit up? Use the bed, ya idjit." He pressed a button on the controller, and a mechanical hum carried Dean into a sitting position.

"I gotta take a piss, alright, Bobby? And I am _not_ callin' a nurse who'll just bring me a damned bedpan!" _I've taken about as much humiliation as I can stand for one week._

"Well, just calm down and take it easy. Lemme help."

"I been handlin' this on my own since I was three. Pretty sure I got it." He moved to swing his legs off the bed and hissed in pain, forearm pressing to his side.

Bobby lowered the bed rail, then stood, waiting.

"Fuckin' hate broken ribs," Dean mumbled. He closed his eyes, his entire being focused on breathing, on fighting back the blackness that taunted him with the promise of oblivion.

When he opened his eyes again, Bobby was ready. Dean made no objection as the older man helped him to his feet, then slid his arm around Dean's waist, hand curling over his right hip, holding the injured man as he swayed.

The stubborn young hunter, face deathly pale once more, closed his eyes, swallowing convulsively.

Bobby had done this dance with Dean before. "I got nowhere else to be, kid. Take all the time ya need."

"Better move before my feet freeze to the damned floor," Dean groused. "Why are hospitals always so fuckin' cold?"

"To keep half-naked assholes like you in bed where they belong!" Bobby grunted in reply.

They shuffled across the floor, Dean steadily taking more of his own weight, until they reached the bathroom.

"You got this?" Bobby queried. "'Cause if not, well, wouldn't be the first time I-"

"Bobby, if you don't stop bringin' up that time I got pissed up as a twelve-year-old and you had to hold my dick for me so I wouldn't piss all over myself, I swear to God-"

Bobby chuckled. "Needed a tweezers and a magnifyin' glass-"

"When I'm healed, I'm beatin' your ass."

"Yeah, well, first step is ta piss without fallin' on _your_ ass. Get to it, boy."

He patted Dean lightly on the shoulder, and felt the man flinch.

He winced himself before pulling the door part way closed and turning his back to it. "I'll be right here. Try to call me _before_ ya fall, not after, okay?"

Dean pinned the front of the hospital gown under the hand that he had planted on the edge of the sink. _He's not listening,_ he tried to tell his bladder, knowing full well that his old friend sure as hell _was_ listening-listening for the sound of Dean passing out and crashing to the floor. He closed his eyes, concentrating- _relax, just relax_ \- and was rewarded with a sharp sting that quickly faded as his raw urethra rid itself of the last reminder of its own personal torture. _Fuckin' hate catheters._

He sighed as his bladder emptied. _Now all I gotta do is eat without hurlin', and I can go ho-well, I can leave here._

He washed and dried his hands without ever once meeting his own eyes in the mirror.

* * *

"What makes Dean Winchester so special?" _Why were you looking for him, and why did he have such a strong effect on me?_

 _We created him, child._ "Dean Winchester is part of the reason that we were exiled." Meridiana rested her fingertips on Zellynnexia's forearm. Mother and daughter closed their eyes.

" _It doesn't have to be this way!" Meridiana stared down at the dead man, disgust a blight on her otherwise perfect features. "We can live as symbionts rather than parasites, create a new race, Nephilim that will be strong enough to-"_

" _Stop!" Irdulili's thunder shook the ground. "Nephilim." He spat lightning at Meridiana's feet, and his disgust at the word approximated hers of the dead man. "Offspring of 'sons of God' and 'daughters of man'. Are we? Are we sons of God?" Thunder roared as he bore down on her, and despite herself, Meridiana felt her heart tremble. "God lays no such claim. He has forsaken us. We are demons, Daughter! And demons do not serve man!" His voice had risen to a mind-numbing howl, and she cowered before him._

 _He froze. Meridiana looked up, and in the sudden terrifying stillness, she realized that he had just seen what she had done. "Cambion," he uttered, voice a bare rumble._

 _She inched backward. "Father…."_

 _He began to grow before her eyes. "Cambion," and his volume was growing as well._

 _She began to retreat in earnest. "No, Father, let me explain!"_

 _He had doubled in size, a roiling black cloud of malevolence that threatened to devour her. "CAMBION!"_

 _His arm lashed out and a streak of lightning split her in two._

The contact was broken and the two females opened their eyes.

"Mother! You created a cambion?" Lynne's voice was breathless with disbelief.

"No. That's what I had wanted to explain to your grandfather, but he was too incensed to listen. We-myself and some like-minded 'Cubi-we influenced a man and a woman to come together. She came from a long line of Hunters, he from a similarly long ancestry of Men of Letters. The two most powerful lines among the humans, those best equipped to battle Darkness."

"Influenced?"

"We went to them in dreams, disguised as the other. Mary dreamt of John, John of Mary, before they ever met."

"And?"

Meridiana smiled. "And when they came together, we...we introduced just a touch of 'Cubi. We ensured that the child that was conceived by these two powerful humans would have some of the added strength, physical resilience, and seductive powers of a 'Cubi."

"Mother!" Lynne breathed, awed.

"The child we created is Dean Winchester."


	14. Chapter 14

**BREATHE CHAPTER 14**

* * *

"Alright, you've taken a very important step towards regaining control of your life: you've made a choice. Life is no longer controlling you; you are now in charge of it. How does that feel?"

"Like I'm wasting my time here, and need to get back out there, hunting things," John growled, and for the first time Caroline felt the danger emanating off of the man.

"Understood, but we're not quite done yet. We still need to identify the things that you would like to change in how you've been interacting with your sons-and the things that you want to keep the same."

"Fine. Let's get it done."

Caroline inhaled deeply, held it, then released it slowly, carrying her new fear of this man away with it. "Two sons, two very different approaches to them. Roughly we need to make certain that you don't drive Sam away, but, more importantly, we need to make absolutely certain that you never brutalize Dean again. Or Sam, for that matter."

"I told you: I've never hit Sam."

She cocked her head in an inquisitive motion that bizarrely reminded John of a small bird. "Why is that, do you suppose?"

He rolled his eyes. _I am so ready to be done with this._ "He's Sam. We protect him, we don't hurt him."

"Why Sam, though? Why does that not apply to Dean?"

"Because Sam's the baby. Dean and I both protect him."

"John, I've never met Sam, but Bobby's told me about him. He's seventeen years old and, what, six feet tall?"

John shrugged.

"He's been hunting with you for at least five years, correct?"

"Yeah."

"So he's hardly a baby."

John shifted uncomfortably, making the wooden chair creak.

"This is another common reaction to experiencing random violence: you're locked into the pattern that was established during that incident: you and Dean, protecting Sam."

John sighed, expelling irritation.

"I realize that this is starting to sound like a broken record, but there are things that your mind does, John. They are subconscious reactions that are meant to protect you in the short-term, but in a perfect world, the conscious mind analyzes and adapts for a sustainable long-term solution. When we sublimate rather than cope, that integration between subconscious and conscious doesn't occur, and we get trapped in a defensive phase that was never meant to continue."

John shifted again. _Startin' to feel like a kid in the principal's office._ "Alright, so what do I have to do?"

Caroline shook her head. "There's no short-term solution that I know of. Cognitive behavioral therapy, group therapy, those are the traditional methods of assisting people who are suffering from post-traumatic stress disorder. Eye movement desensitization and reprocessing is a newer, controversial therapy that may work more quickly, but I don't know of anyone who is practicing it at this time. I can look into it if you're interested."

"I ain't sitting around with...I won't do group therapy."

"Understood."

"And I ain't interested in being a guinea pig for something controversial. How long's this cognitive behavioral thing take?"

"It varies. I typically start with twice weekly therapy sessions. With civilians that can continue for months before both the client and I are comfortable decreasing to once weekly, then twice monthly sessions. From hunters I take what I can get when I can get it."

John smiled grimly. "Sounds like Dean."

Caroline looked startled, then laughed. "Well...yes, I suppose that could be a double entendre."

"So obviously I fall into the 'hunter' category. How we gonna play this?"

"I still want to have a list of specific behaviors or interactions with each son that you would like to change, and a plan for how to do that. Then I'll give you some tools for helping to manage your anger and recognize the signs that indicate that an incident may be imminent. Finally, I'm going to assign you some reading and writing exercises."

John groaned. "Did I tell you I hated school? Particularly English classes?"

Caroline smiled, patting his hand. "Consider it retribution."

Level eyes met hers. "Fair enough."

* * *

Meridiana cupped her daughter's chin in her hand, forcing the younger succubus to meet her gaze. "You need to collect him."

Zellynnexia shot to her feet. "Mother, I can't! He's too...I won't be able to control it! I'll either drain him, or lose myself!"

"Shush, child," Meridiana soothed. "Just sit, and listen to me. There is something coming, something bad. An apocalypse of some sort. We can't fight it alone-we are too few, and reproduction has been forbidden us. If my father discovers that anyone has created a true cambion, it would bring death to all involved."

She paused, assessing the beautiful, intelligent, strong being before her. "But Dean Winchester...genetics from two powerful lines of humans...if we collect him, add just a bit of 'Cubi, then implant that seed into carefully chosen humans - hunters - the offspring won't be cambion. They will be humans. Enhanced humans, stronger, able to heal more quickly, harder to kill...and with an increased seductive ability that ensures the continuation of what we have wrought."

"The symbiosis you tried to tell Grandfather about?"

"Precisely. We feed on human sexual energy without draining them, and in return we heal them and create a stronger line of humans that are better prepared to stand beside us in the coming storm."

"And we increase their attractiveness as well as their sexual cravings."

Meridiana smiled lasciviously. "Well, it is intended to be a _mutually_ advantageous interaction, after all."

Lynne lowered her head. "I am afraid."

Meridiana stroked her daughter's hair. "Of what, my child?"

"Grandfather… but also Dean. I... I've never felt what I did with him. I don't know if I can control it. What if I can't stop in time?"

"I'll be with you, child. I can remove you should the need arise."

"And Grandfather? What if he finds out?"

"We will just have to be certain that he doesn't."

"How, Mother? He's practically a god-"

"Practically. Not actually. He is not omnipotent."

"But he must be watching you, watching Dean…"

"His powers of observation are very limited, Zellynnexia. When he struck me, sundered me in two, he severed our telepathic connection. I am cut off from all but those I have chosen to physically bond with. He can only observe me as a human would."

"And Dean?"

"The same. Irdulili's only connection to the child was through me. In expelling me, he freed us all."

Lynne sighed, resignation softening her spine.

"What of the other man? Dean's uncle? I'm certain he won't leave his nephew's bedside, and it will take my full concentration to remain in control while I...collect him."

"He has an uncle? Show me."

The telepathic connection was made, and a very warm smile graced Meridiana's elegant features. "Bobby Singer."

"You know him? Another hunter? Did you…."

Meridiana's gaze softened, lost in memory. "I used to feed on him, long ago, before he was married. Before he became a hunter. Beautiful man. Strong mind." She brushed a strand of hair from her daughter's cheek. "It will be a pleasure to distract him for you."

Lynne shook her head, smiling. "Just don't become distracted yourself, Mother. I'm serious about my fear of Dean Winchester."

Meridiana laughed, a hearty, beautiful sound. "I've had centuries to practice my self-control. You'll be fine."

* * *

"Ya shouldn'ta pulled the damn catheter out, ya idjit," Bobby admonished, gruff tone doing nothing to disguise his concern from the young man he'd practically raised.

Dean had pushed his food tray to the side with a decidedly nauseous expression, leaving even the pudding untouched. "'S not pain, Bobby, I jus' feel like I'm gonna hurl. Probably from too many pain meds."

Bobby rolled his eyes. "I call 'bullshit' on that one, Winchester."

"I concur," the physician at Dean's bedside offered. He held Dean's chart in his hands. "Your heart rate and blood pressure have been increasing steadily throughout the afternoon. You know," he added pointedly, "since you pulled your IV catheter out and we were no longer able to administer intravenous pain medications." He paused as the nurse removed the blood pressure cuff from his patient's arm and rattled off some numbers, none of which meant a thing to the patient they were discussing. "And now they are higher still. Your respiratory rate is increased as well." To the nurse he added in an undertone, "I knew they should've plated his ribs."

The nurse shrugged, a silent, _"I agree, but whattaya gonna do?"_.

The doctor sighed. "We can either replace the IV catheter or give you intramuscular injections. I'm not confident that you'll be able to keep oral medications down long enough for them to do any good. What's your preference? I don't want to waste time inserting a catheter if you're just going to pull it out again as soon as we leave the room."

Dean swallowed convulsively. His chest rose and fell in rapid, shallow breaths, and the tension was clearly visible in the lines of his face. "How long?" His eyes were closed, voice pain-roughened.

"How long for what?"

"How long am I gonna-" he broke off, swallowing hard, hand rising to cover his mouth.

The nurse bent forward quickly, holding an emesis basin under his patient's lips, ready to help the man turn onto his side should he lose the battle against his nausea.

Dean's jaw clenched and he held his breath, sweat beading along his hairline.

Bobby took hold of the arm that Dean had wrapped around his convulsing abdomen, pressing his thumb firmly into a pressure point on the young hunter's wrist. "'S'posed to help with nausea," he offered to his audience of medical personnel. "Eastern medicine, acupressure stuff. I lived in Japan for a while."

Dean's chest began to move again, and he slowly relaxed. "How long am I gonna feel this way?"

"Given the extent of damage, I expect the nausea to be fairly severe for three or four days, and persist for at least a week. Pain is harder to predict; everyone's a bit different. At least two weeks, I would think. Maybe longer. You should be able to switch to oral medications in two or three days."

The lines in the young man's face deepened. "Son of a bitch." He licked his lips. "IV," he conceded, and the physician patted his shin through the blankets.

"Good choice."

* * *

"I'll give you one more day, Doc," John conceded.

Caroline nodded. "Alright. As I said, I'll take what I can get. One more day, and then you can go." She sighed. _I hope for Dean's sake that his father is ready._

* * *

 **AUTHOR'S NOTE**

 _For information on the impact of violent death on surviving family members, type "Survivors Of Violent Loss" into your search engine (svlp dot org/meetingtheneeds)._

 **############################################**

 _ **Fair warning: the next chapter will be about SMUT.**..well, it'll be tasteful smut. I mean, I'll think it's tasteful, but I suppose that's a matter of opinion! Gotta keep it in the 'M' rating range, so it won't be too graphic. Anyway, if that's not your thing, feel free to skip it, and I'll recap the important, non-smut components at the beginning of Chapter 16. Fair enough?_

 _Thanks, ya'all! ~ Chuck (no, not_ that _Chuck!)_


	15. Chapter 15

**BREATHE CHAPTER 15**

* * *

One IV catheter, an anti-nausea injection, and a shot of morphine later, Dean was beginning to drift.

"How are you feeling, Dean?" the physician asked.

"You're not Dr. Kim, and I ain't us'lly into guys, but if I could move righ' now, I think I'd kiss you, Doc."

Bobby chuckled. "Guess that means he's feelin' pretty good, and for once the ass is grateful for it."

The doctor smiled. "I know it's important to be tough, Dean, but it's ridiculous to put yourself through that kind of pain when you don't have to."

Dean smiled lazily. "Jus' tryin'a get outta here. No 'fense, but I don' like 'ospitals much."

Bobby patted his hand, hoping to stop the unfiltered chatter before the wrong words leaked out. "Nobody does, boy. Go to sleep. You'll feel better in the mornin'."

Dr. Garby took the hint. "He's right, Dean. Just close your eyes and get some rest, okay? We'll talk more about getting you out of here tomorrow."

"Mm-kay." He closed his eyes obediently. A Mona Lisa smile ghosted the corners of his mouth as he floated on morphine-induced memories from earlier in the day.

* * *

" _Good afternoon, gentlemen."_

 _Dean took in the curvaceous, dark-haired female._ By God, it's a true Busty Asian Beauty! Hope she's here to give me a sponge bath. _He felt that slow smile that women couldn't seem to resist break out over his face._

" _I'm Dr. Kim, Dean. I met your uncle earlier."_

Oh, shit! She's a doctor! _Panic danced in his chest. "I thought you were a nurse." Nurses usually liked him. They were kind, and did nice things to make him feel better, and brought him food. Doctors...doctors were frightening. They gave him orders and made him stay in bed and eat disgusting things and wouldn't let him have pie, and they did things that hurt or ordered other people to stick things in him, and they wanted to look at and touch things they shouldn't, and he just had to let them, because it was supposedly good for him. Doctors were terrifying._

" _Here to give 'im a sponge bath," Bobby told her, and Dean could've killed him._

" _Bobby!" He widened his eyes, trying to tell the older man to shut his trap._

" _It's a common mistake. I'm actually your surgeon, and if all goes well, this will be the only time you'll see me." She sounded irritated._

Oh, shit. I am so screwed.

" _As long as there are no surgical complications, you'll be in the care of one of the staff physicians," she added, and her voice had softened._

" _Okay." He tried not to sound as relieved as he felt._

 _She reached for the controls on the bed. "I need to lower this to take a look at your incision. How are you feeling?"_

Oh, crap! _She was going to have to partially undress him, and she'd be touching him, and damn, she was so hot, and he could only imagine how pissed she'd be if his body responded the way he expected it to…._

" _Hey, Doc?" Bobby queried. Dean knew right away what Bobby was doing, and he widened his eyes, mouthing,_ "Don't you dare leave! No!"

 _But Bobby just continued, "You mind if I step out? All this medical stuff makes me a little queasy," and the look in his eyes was sheer mirth._

Oh, you son of a bitch! I will get you for this!

" _Yes, of course. This shouldn't take long."_

 _She leaned forward slightly, manipulating the controls on the bed, and the v-neck of her scrub top gaped open. His eyes traced the swell of one beautifully shaped breast to where it disappeared into the cup of her bra, and he groaned. Little Dean was awake._

" _How are you feeling, Dean?"_

" _Just peachy." He closed his eyes._ Go back to sleep, you little bastard! I'm in charge here!

" _I'm going to take a look at your abdomen, alright?"_

Oh, hell. This is so bad. _"Sure."_ Boy, if you ever want to come out and play again, you will damned well go back to sleep now, before she finds you and rips you right off! You hear me?

 _She pulled the covers down, piling them on his lap, then unsnapped the right sleeve of his gown. That allowed her to peel the garment up and over to his left side, leaving the right half of his torso exposed._

" _The discoloration doesn't seem to have spread," she observed, running the pads of her velvety soft fingers over his skin._

 _Little Dean leapt to attention, and it was all Big Dean could do not to groan in a mixture of embarrassment and apprehension._ Please don't let her notice!

 _He felt gooseflesh develop as his nipples hardened, and resolutely kept his eyes closed._ Think about ghouls. Stinky, nasty, chunks-of-flesh-falling-off ghouls….

" _Just relax. I promise I'll be gentle."_

 _Little Dean jumped again, heavy blankets be damned, and the hunter draped his left arm over his face, stifling a groan._

" _How much pain are you in?"_

 _Her fingers were warm and sure as they traveled over his abdomen, and he begged his body to ignore how good they felt._ Think about pain. How do those ribs _really_ feel, Little Dean?

The memory transitioned seamless into a dream, with the dreamer himself unaware of having drifted off to sleep.

" _Let's see what you're hiding under there, Dean." She stripped the blankets from him, and his heart chittered frantically in his chest._

 _Suddenly his hospital gown was gone, and his body was tight, coated with a thin sheen of sweat, eyes squeezed tightly closed, braced for some sort of pain._

" _Dean?"_

" _Yeah?" The air was cool on his skin._

" _Open your eyes." Her voice held a quiet but undeniable authority, and they popped open obediently._

 _She was nude, skin glowing silver in the insubstantial fluorescence of the hospital monitors, and she was all soft curves and smooth skin and he wanted so badly to touch her, run calloused palms that were long-accustomed to rough over something so heartrendingly tender, but he couldn't move, no matter how hard he tried._

 _He drank her in, and he knew that his eyes were wide, that his expression was exactly like a little kid on Christmas morning, staring at a tree piled high with gifts and a stocking overflowing with candy, because that was precisely how he felt. She was perfect, breath-taking, so out of his league that he couldn't believe she was gifting him with this, giving herself to him -_

 _Suddenly she was straddling him, her heat poised over his throbbing need, and her fingers slid over his skin, awakening every nerve ending that she touched. He moaned, straining to reach her, to press his hips into hers, raise his lips to taste her honey-scented skin, his hands to sculpt rounded flesh, but his body wouldn't obey._

 _Her mouth followed her hands; lips, tongue, and teeth exploring him, torturing him with pleasure until he was burning with it, every cell begging for her to engulf him, possess him, make him her own._

" _Please...please." But he didn't even know what he was pleading for, only that his entire body was aching with need, straining to reach her, and her mouth covered his, sucking his tongue into its wet heat at the same time that she lowered her hips, impaling her body on his, surrounding and saturating him with molten velvet that tore his breath from him in a hoarse shout, and there was nothing but raw pleasure, exquisite in its totality, exploding out from him in a blinding flash of white light, wiping his mind clear of thought and his consciousness free of any sensation other than bliss._

 _Unbeknownst to him, his body broke free of its paralysis, curling into her, arms wrapping tightly around her back to grip her shoulders, pulling her closer as he drove upward in an instinctive need to exist in this ecstasy for all of eternity._

"Zellynnexia!"

The syllables crashed through his awareness, bliss splintering around him, and she was gone.

* * *

She knelt on her bedroom floor, breathless moans unheard as her own ecstasy rolled through her, blinding and deafening her to anything but this soul-encompassing pleasure -

It released her, and she collapsed into her mother's arms, boneless and warm, the residue of her culmination echoing in her joints and tingling along her skin.

"Are you alright?"

Her mother's voice was tender, and Lynne smiled, even as a shudder ran through her. "I couldn't control it."

"No...I'm so sorry. He is more dangerous than I realized."

"Did he...did he break through? Did he touch me?"

"Yes." Meridiana's voice was light with the wonder of it. "He moved. I had been taught that such a thing was not possible for a human, but he moved."

"Momma," she whispered, and despite the danger she had been in, she felt nothing but joy and gratitude, "I'm glad you were there."

"As am I, child. As am I."


	16. Chapter 16

The unconscious smile faded from Bobby's face as awareness dawned with the new day. He glanced down at himself, shifted uncomfortably, then slanted his eyes at Dean. Noting the young man's state of deep sleep, the increasingly irritated older man pinched the front of his jeans between the thumb and forefinger of each hand, grimacing as he simultaneously pulled on the fabric while wriggling his hips. The memory of his dream was fresh and hot in his mind, multiplying his ire as he immediately recognized its source. "Damned succubus," he muttered darkly, shifting a look back to his younger, normally-irresistible-to-females friend. "What the hell'd it want with _me_?" He tugged the edge of his flannel down over the front of his pants. "I'm too old for this crap!"

His lip curled in disgust at the tacky sensation of drying cloth against his groin as he rose to check on his fellow hunter.

"Huh," he observed. "Ain't never seen you sleep this deep 'afore." He rested his palms on the bed rail, expectant. _Kid's got a third freakin' eye. He never sleeps through havin' someone stare at him like this._ It had been one of Sam's favorite ways to torment his older brother when they were both young. _Hell, prob'ly still is._

Bobby's vague sense of unease grew with each slow, insensate breath the young hunter took.

"What the hell?" he grumbled. He turned and scanned the monitors. Lights were flashing, and he realized that no one had noticed the modification he'd made to the audible alarms the day before. "Shit!" He fumbled for the controls strapped to the railing, pressing the 'Call' button before hurrying from the room, a tightly controlled "Nurse!" reverberating loudly in the narrow corridor.

* * *

"I really don't know," Dr. Garby admitted, shaking his head. He raised his eyes from his silent patient. "Your nephew's in a coma, Mr. Kayser. We performed a CT scan of his entire body, then followed up with an MRI just to be certain. We can't find a cause. In fact," and his brows furrowed as his confusion surfaced, "his ribs, liver, and kidney all look...healed." He rubbed at his jawline firmly as he shook his head. "I've sent off some advanced blood chemistries, including toxin screening and quantification of his opioid levels in case we inadvertently overdosed him, but if all of that comes back within the normal range, I'll be at a loss for an explanation here."

Bobby's combined sensations of nausea and dread had grown with each revelation from the concerned physician. _Succubus. Or Succubi. Hell, could even'a been an Incubus, really. 'Cubi of some sort, anyway. Got us both. But why?_

"I'm very sorry, Mr. Kayser. I don't know what to say."

Bobby shook himself back into character. "'S okay, Doc. Sounds like ya done all ya could. Guess it's in the Good Lord's hands now." _Like that douchebag ever comes through for us._

"He is stable for now, at least. I'm going to make some phone calls and scour the medical journals while we wait for the test results to come back. The staff knows to alert me to any changes immediately." He rose, moving toward the door, only to turn back a few steps from the bed. "Oh, and Mr. Kayser?"

Bobby looked up. "Yuh?"

"Please don't touch the monitors."

The chagrined hunter nodded, that unfamiliar sense of having been justly chastised bleeding into his voice. "Yes, sir."

The room emptied, and the tired old man allowed his shoulders to droop as he scanned the supine figure on the bed before him. Frustration amplified by worry had him balancing on the edge of despair. "What the hell is goin' on now, Kid?"

* * *

" _Robert. How is Dean?"_

"Tha's what I called about, Caroline. There's somethin' goin' on here, and I...I need Winchester."

" _He' given me this one last day, Bobby, and I'm honestly not certain that it will be enough. Can this wait?"_

Bobby tipped his head back on a long, contemplative, and soul-weary sigh. _What's gonna kill him first? A damned succubus, or his old man?_ The grizzled hunter shook his head. "Lord knows I don't wanna interfere with what yer doin' - Hell, I'd be happy to never be in the same state as that bastard ever again - but this can't wait, and I got no one else to call." He lifted his ballcap, raking the last three fingers of the same hand through his hair before settling the symbol of his identity firmly in place. "I need 'im, Caroline."

He heard his reservations echoed in her sigh. " _Alright. I'll get him."_

Seconds later a familiar voice filled his ear. " _Bobby. What's happening? How's Dean? Where's Sam?"_

Bobby glowered at the phone. _Bastard ain't made any progress at all._ "Hold yer horses, there, Winchester. Sam's in Flagstaff, just like Dean thought. Rufus is watchin' 'im. Dean -" the hitch in his voice surprised him. Bobby coughed to cover it up. "Dean's in a coma." He lowered his voice, turning away from the bed. "Pretty sure a Succubus got him."

" _A what? Where the hell is he? Where are you?"_ There was a brief pause as the fierce hunter's agile brain caught up, followed by a familiar refrain of: " _Singer! What the hell is goin' on?"_ in a tone that alerted all within hearing range that John Winchester was about to explode.

Bobby sighed wearily, the sleeplessness, frustration, and worry of the past few days washing over him, and he lowered his face to his hand, scrubbing at it with a calloused palm. _I don't wanna do this anymore. I don't even know where to start._

But in defiance of all logic or self-preservation, Bobby Singer loved the Winchesters, and he couldn't desert them.

 _Get 'im focused on somethin' he can hunt._ "A Succubus got ahold of Dean. Only a matter a' time, I suppose." He contemplated that for too brief a moment, promising himself he'd give that realization the attention it deserved as soon as he had the time. "I'm actually surprised it took this long, given the boy's...appetite. Anyway, I can't tell yet if it...ah...just _fed_ off him, or actually...um... _collected_ him."

The whole conversation was forcing Bobby's mind into corners it had never wanted to see, and he was feeling decidedly uncomfortable.

" _I don't know anything about these things, Bobby. What the hell does that all mean? Why's he in a coma?"_

"There are a lotta types of 'Cubi," the more knowledgeable hunter began, only to be cut-off by his consistently rude protege.

"'Cubi?"

"Female are Succubi, male are Incubi. Collectively I call 'em 'Cubi."

" _You call 'em?"_ the other hunter observed acerbically. " _Nevermind. What are they? You said they feed off people, so some kind of monster, but what? Vampires? Fairies?"_

Bobby choked down his impatience. "Technically, they're demons, but not all of 'em kill people."

" _Wait: demons? What the hell, Bobby? Demons are real?"_

"Yeah, they're real. Don't know all that much about 'em, but I've run into a Succubus a time or two." _One I didn't know about 'til long after the fact, ain't seen in decades, yet she came back last night. Why is that?_

" _You need to tell me everything you know about demons, Singer,"_ and the man had adopted the low and dangerous tone that Bobby tried to pretend didn't trigger all of his defenses.

"I will, soon as this particular crisis is over." _Not like I was deliberately keepin' it a secret from ya, asshole. They're just so damned rare._ He pushed thoughts of his wife, black-eyed and murderous, from his mind."Right now we need to focus on the problem at hand."

" _Right,"_ the man conceded, tone softening incrementally. "' _Cubi: feed on people, may have fed on Dean. Or, did you say 'collected' from him? What do they collect?"_

"If it's the type I think it is, they feed on sexual energy and they collect…" he shook his head, pausing to rub his forehead again. "Semen."

The silence vibrated between them, and Bobby nearly chuckled. _Think that's the first time that man's ever been struck dumb._

"I don't know what the thing's intentions are, but it - " he broke off, realizing that John had yet to be enlightened as to the full extent of his older son's injuries. That wasn't a subject he wanted to address just now. "It left him alive. I got nothin' to show me that Dean put up a fight, so I gotta believe it was a choice that the demon made. I just don't know who, or why, or where to look for the damned thing."

" _Shit,"_ came the low mutter, and Bobby could picture the other man rubbing a hand across his face. " _You think it's just lettin' him live so it can keep feedin' off him a little at a time until it finally kills him?"_

 _Not a bad way to go, all things considered._ "Maybe. Not sure if it matters about the collecting or not. Hard to find much in the lore about 'em breeding. I mean, that's the reason they're supposed to do that: they combine their genetics with a human's to create Cambion. I don't know if they're doin' that, and if they are, why it would matter whether Dean survived the process. Unless they want more. Creatin' an army, or somethin'." _Hunter-Cambion army._ Bobby shuddered internally at the thought.

" _Wait, wait, you're losin' me, Singer. Cambion? What the hell is that? And an army of what?_ For _what?"_

"Cambion are half-human, half-demon. S'posed ta be more powerful than a demon, which actually don't make a lick a' sense to me. Like breedin' a toy poodle and a pitbull together so's you can make a wolf. Anyway, an army of Cambion, and I don't know what for. One a' the things we need to look into."

John sighed. " _Sounds like one helluva hunt."_ He was quiet, and Bobby predicted where his mind was going. " _I wonder if this has got anything to do with what happened to Mary."_

Stifling guilt at the planned manipulation, Bobby replied with: "Could be. Not an avenue we've explored already, that's fer sure."

John grunted in acknowledgement. " _I gotta wrap a few things up on this end, but should reach you in about two hours. What hospital are you at? I assume if Dean's in a coma, you've got him admitted, right?"_ The tone had dropped back to dangerous as Protective Daddy surfaced.

"A' course he's in a hospital. Whaddaya think I am, an idjit? But I don't think it's a good idea for you to come here." Bobby scrambled to find a reason why, certain that learning how close Dean had come to dying at his father's hands would be more detrimental than helpful at this point. It needed to be discussed, but not right now. Not when so many variables were out of Bobby's control.

" _What the hell are you spoutin', Singer? My boy's in the hospital in a fuckin' coma! Of course I'm gonna be there!"_

"A Succubus fed on me, too, John. It ain't gonna do us any good for the damned thing to hit all of us. As far as we know, you're still under its radar, and we need to keep it that way."

" _What if it comes back? It already got to Dean once on your watch."_

Bobby bridled at the familiar condemnation. " _On your watch", John Winchester for "you've committed an unpardonable sin." Miserable bastard._

"The thing's either gotta take on a human form, a corporeal one, or come to you in a dream. Now I know it's out there, all I gotta do is make sure I'm awake whenever Dean's asleep, and he doesn't get any opportunities to mingle."

" _He's in a coma, for Christ' sake. You gonna stay awake twenty-four seven until he comes out of it? We need to take it in shifts."_

"I'll have Rufus bring Sam back to do that."

" _You'd put Sam under the gun with that thing?"_

By the tone of his voice, Bobby was certain that the man had risen to his full height and was standing with his fist clenched, trembling with the need to smash Bobby's face in.

"No, I'd put Rufus in its sights. Knowin' him, the dirty old bastard would thank me for it, too."

Bobby's effort at lightening the mood must have been successful, because even the intangible energy of radio waves stretching between the two hunters' cell phones lost its electric edge.

"I'll send Sam to help you out," the eldest hunter offered, knowing he was walking a thin line by appointing himself the primary organizer of this hunt. "He's even better at research than I am, assuming you can get him to the right library." _There_ , Bobby observed, pleased with his machinations. _That should tie everything up: keep John away from Dean, get Sam into the part of the hunt he actually enjoys, and still hopefully allow everyone to figure this mess out._

 _Bobby Singer, you are a freakin' genius._


	17. Chapter 17

**BREATHE CHAPTER 17**

* * *

"Well hey there, Sleepin' Beauty. Nice t'see ya awake."

"MmmmBobby?" Having successfully opened his eyes, Dean switched his focus to getting his arms and legs to cooperate.

"Yeah, kid, I'm here."

"Why can' I move? Body feels heavy."

"Lingerin' effects of the spell, or poison, or whatever."

Green eyes opened wide. "What are you talkin' about?"

Bobby's smile twisted with the worry he'd felt and the relief he was experiencing now. "Succubus got ya. Couldn't find a prince to kiss ya awake. Was afraid I was gonna hafta try myself, but then that detective stopped back in."

Dean grimaced. "Haha, very funny. So Hedley came back? Why?"

Bobby's expression turned grim. "You went into a coma, and the docs couldn't figure out why. They went lookin' harder for drugs, did a hair analysis. Just came back today."

Dean felt a headache coming on. "I thought those things took months." He closed his eyes, then snapped them open again. "How long was I out?"

"Three days. They did a rush on this one, hopin' to find out what to do for ya." Bobby shrugged. "We were on it too, a' course, but I don't knows we did much better."

"Three days? Son of a bitch." Dean glanced around, noting the vases of flowers suffused with herbs, particularly sage. "Wait: is that garlic?"

"Well...yeah." Bobby looked chagrined. "Kinda graspin' at straws, here."

"You think a vampire did this?"

"No, ya idjit, I tol' ya: it was a Succubus. Or mebbe an Incubus. Can't really tell from this side a' things."

"Yeah, you said that in the middle of your comedy act, thought it was part of the show. So, where's Sam? He safe? And when's Dad comin' back?"

Irritation crossed the older hunter's face. "Christ, Dean. You just hear you were attacked by somethin' that put ya in a coma for three whole days, and you ain't got any questions about that?"

Dean just looked at him. "Well? Sam? Dad?""

Bobby sighed. "They're together, tryin'a track this thing down-"

Dean struggled to push himself up, and Bobby angrily forced him back to the mattress. "Bobby! I gotta -"

"Lay your ass down right now, Winchester, or I swear to your mother I will knock you out!"

The thundering tone was one Bobby rarely resorted to, and Dean subsided, eyes wide.

"What the hell, Bobby?"

"You just listen to me, and you listen good, jackass. I know you've made it your sworn duty to take care of everybody in sight of you, but for once in your damned life you're gonna sit back and get well, you hear me? That's twice in a matter a' days that I almost watched you die, and by God, I am _not_ doing it again!"

Bobby stood, red-faced and panting, in contrast to Dean, who was wide-eyed and pale.

Bobby blinked, and Dean licked his lips nervously.

The old hunter relaxed, removing his hands from the boy's chest. "Sorry." The word was clipped and gruff.

"So...um...what's this thing that's got me, and what are we doing about it?" _And how many questions that I don't give a damn about do I have to ask before you answer the ones that matter?_

"A succubus is a type of demon, feeds on human energy. Sexual energy, with this particular one, though there're others that can feed on different emotions and whatnot. Sam and John are doing some research, but our witness has been asleep this whole time, which kinda hindered things." He gave Dean a pointed look.

Dean breathed a sigh of relief. "Sammy's doin' research, huh? Bet he likes that." _How was he about being brought back? Did he come without a fight 'cause he wanted to help me?_

"Yeah, but like I said, we ain't got very far." He gestured around at the room. "Did find out how to keep it away. Damned good thing, too, 'cause I had to call Rufus in for back up, and I can only stand that dickhead for so long."

Dean chuckled. _He and Rufus are like brothers, the way they bicker. Worse'n me and Sam._ Then he sobered. "So this thing is a demon?"

"Sorta. The lore's a little sketchy, but the nearest I can figure it out, the first Incubus was a storm god -"

"Wait: what's an Incubus? I thought you said 'Succubus'."

"Male is an Incubus, female's a Succubus. May I continue, Your Highness?" Sarcasm had always been Bobby's primary language. "So, this storm god musta been some sort of archangel or something. Don't know what he did, but it pissed God off, and he got cast out. Started breedin' with humans, made more 'Cubi."

"Breeding with humans? So half god, half man?"

"Not god, demon. Or maybe still angel, at that point. I don't really know the whole supernatural family tree, Dean."

Dean ignored the jibe, lost in thought. "So you think one...ah…" he gestured at himself.

"Quit gettin' ahead a' yerself and lemme finish educatin' ya. So, for a while these things could breed and make new beings and whatever. Ended up bein' a bunch of...tribes, I guess you'd call 'em. Different ones can feed on different things, all human, 'cause like all former archangels, Irdulili - or it might be Lilu - the first 'Cubus, anyway - hates humans."

"What things do they feed on? Does that kill the humans?"

"They feed on emotional energy. Lust, anger, sadness, joy, you name it, somebody's feeding on it. Since it's energy they're taking, yeah, they can kill the host. Rumor has it that more and more of 'em are tryin' to pass as human, though, and there hasn't been a 'Cubus death reported by a hunter since I don't-know-when."

"Huh. That's interesting. Are they still breeding with people, though?"

"Don't think so. Apparently Irdulili forbade it. His own daughter tried it, and he hit her with a lightning bolt."

 _And you thought_ my _dad was bad!_ "That's quite a lesson. Kill her?"

"Nope. Split her in two. Lore has it that one half stayed with him, and is pure evil. The other went off somewhere, and is apparently a force for good."

"So what kind do you think went after _me_?"

Bobby began to look uncomfortable. "Well...there were actually _two_ here that night."

Dean felt a slow smile start to grow on his face.

"Oh, knock it off! Idjit!" Bobby muttered. "The one I...dreamt about...I'd had dreams about her before, a long time ago. So when I woke up, I remembered her and recognized her. Then I saw you in a coma, and figured you'd had a visitor, too. Heard mine yell 'Zellynnexia'. That name mean anything to you?"

Dean furrowed his eyebrows in thought. "No...doesn't sound familiar. I like it though. Not often you get a 'z' and an 'x' in the same name. Bet it's a bitch to spell."

Bobby rolled his eyes. "I'd say you could name yer children after her, but turns out, you might."

"Whaddaya mean?"

Responding to the alarm in the young man's voice, Bobby chuckled. "Don't worry, son. If she presses for marriage or child support, we got a pretty strong argument for claiming you were coerced."

"Oh, you are just all sorts of funny today, Bobby. Seriously, are there gonna be a bunch of half Dean, half demons runnin' around out there? 'Cause frankly, I don't like my odds against somethin' like that."

Bobby passed a hand over his face wearily. "We don't know. We don't know if she collected your...ah….DNA, or just fed off you - took your energy, which is what put you in a coma."

"How do we find out?"

"Well," Bobby shifted in his chair, "we were hoping you could tell us."

"Tell you?"

"Yeah. Like….remember the dream you had, and tell us."

"A dream I had three days ago, while I was hopped-up on morphine. That's what you expect me to remember?"

Bobby looked sheepish. "Well...yeah."

Dean rolled his eyes. "Well, hate to break it to ya, but I don't. So, what now?"

Bobby spread his hands, palms up. "Do what we always do, I guess: research, keep our eyes open...and set out some bait."


	18. Chapter 18

**BREATHE CHAPTER 18**

* * *

"I still don't understand why I can't go see Dean." The seventeen-year-old's tone bordered on a whine.

John sighed. _Patience, Winchester._ "I don't exactly understand it, either, Sammy. Somethin' about a police detective sniffin' around, but also not wanting the 'Cubi to know who all we've got workin' with us."

"But Rufus - "

"I get the impression Bobby doesn't consider him family. Or maybe there's something Bobby knows about the man's ability to withstand a Succubus attack that he ain't sharin'."

John set down the gun he'd been cleaning to give Sam his full attention. "I gotta be honest, Sam, I don't like it either, but I've known Bobby a long time, and the man is smart." He flashed a rare smile at his younger son. "Almost as smart as you, genius." Not so long ago he would have rumpled Sam's hair with that compliment, and received a shy smile in return. _Miss those days._

"Anyway, the point is, he may not be telling us everything, but I still trust him."

John watched Sam's eyes fill, and he knew where this was going. "But he's in a coma, Dad. What if he…." the boy's words were a harsh near-whisper.

John sighed. "According to Bobby, the doctor says Dean's body is gettin' stronger and his brainwaves are increasing, so he's gettin' better. It's just takin' a while. And we all know your big brother could use all the brainwaves he can get, so I'm not gonna try to rush things." He'd meant that as a joke, but from the look on Sam's face, the boy hadn't taken it that way.

"I shouldn't have left. Maybe I could've stopped it." Long hair swung forward to cover his face.

"Or got chewed up by it yourself. And what were you gonna do, go on his date with him? Hand him a condom when he was ready? C'mon, Sam! Dean's a big boy, he oughta be able to take care of himself." John knew the minute he heard the words that he was going to pay for that remark.

Sam stood, angry. "He should, and he would, if we got to be normal people! Normal people don't have to worry about getting their life force drained by a freakin' _demon_ in the middle of the night! But we aren't normal people, and you won't let us be!"

John watched his sensitive younger son snatch up his bag on his way to the bathroom. _Not a lot of options for storming off in a huff in a hotel room._ He could tell by the sound of the tap that Sam was running a bath, and the father sighed. _Might as well get to work on the stuff Caroline gave me. He's gonna be in there a while._

 **SPNSPNSPNSPNSPNSPNSPNSPN**

Detective Hedley entered Dean's hospital room in time to catch the tail end of Bobby's comment. "Bait for what?"

"Jus' plannin' a little fishin' trip, now that the boy's awake," Bobby punted.

The police officer pulled up a chair. "Oh, yeah? What are you after? Salmon? Trout?"

Bobby answered "Rainbow" at the same time Dean claimed "Sturgeon".

Bobby glowered at his 'nephew'. "We haven't decided yet."

Hedley lifted his eyebrows. "Clearly. Anyway, I wanted to talk to you a bit more, Dean. I think it'd be best if we started this conversation off privately." He looked to Bobby, who set his jaw and crossed his arms over his chest.

Dean shifted uncomfortably in his blankets. "Why?"

"Your uncle tell you the hospital ran a test on your hair?"

"Yeah. Tryin' to figure out why I went into a coma. Lookin' for drugs, but I'm not a user."

"Didn't figure you were, being an athlete and everything, but you never know." He shrugged dismissively. "You've had a lot of injuries over the years, and pain medications can be addictive."

Dean blanked for a second, then caught up. _Oh, yeah. Bobby told 'im I was a boxer._ "And?"

The detective held up a folder. "We got the results back. Confidentiality laws dictate that I go over them with you privately first."

Both of the hunters could tell that there was more the man wasn't saying.

Bobby looked to Dean, who shrugged. "I could use a cup a' coffee," the older man conceded.

Hedley waited until the door had closed before he began to speak. "You seem like a straight-forward guy, so I'm going to get right to it: They found rohypnol."

Dean stared at him blankly.

"Roofies?" the detective provided.

A cold flush washed over Dean.

"Ah. I see that one rings a bell. Care to tell me about it?"

Dean turned his head and began an intense study of the ceiling.

"They did a pretty thorough exam that first night, Dean. Found some injuries, minor compared to the ones you needed surgery for, that had happened a few days before these others." He waved a hand to encompass the younger man's entire body. "Bruises, abrasions, nothing too serious. Given where some of them were and the fact that they were already healing by the time you sustained the near-fatal ones, we just chalked it up to some energetic but likely consensual sexual activity."

The man he was questioning may as well have been turned to stone.

"But then we found the rohypnol. Date-rape drug. And this is a college town; we deal with that kind of thing way too frequently. It's something that we take very seriously."

Absolutely no reaction from the man on the bed.

Hedley leaned forward, intent. "So, I have to ask you: were you conscious for either of those events? Or did you have a drink and wake up all beat to hell with no idea how or why?"

Winchester didn't even blink.

The detective leaned in even closer, breath fanning the boy's ear. "Or is it in your hair because you're the one doling it out, and you accidentally dosed yourself? Did you roofie that girl you told me about, and someone found out? Is that why they nearly beat you to death?"

The readings on the monitors never wavered.

The officer blew out a disgusted sigh. "Still not talking. Someone else is going to go through this because you're too stubborn or stupid, or have some misplaced sense of loyalty. Or because you're the one doing it." He stood up, tossing a business card onto the blanketed figure currently imitating a statue before him. "You know where to reach me, and I'll be watching you."

Dean held perfectly still until he heard the door close, and then he began to shake.

* * *

Bobby walked into the room and nearly collided with Dean. "Well, nice to see ya on yer feet again, even if I wasn't really expectin' it so soon."

The young hunter was dressed in the clothes Bobby had brought for him. A plastic bag containing the garments that had been cut away by emergency personnel dangled from his fist. "Let's go." His voice was terse, and he shouldered past his friend.

"Well, shit."

Bobby glanced around the room, hoping they weren't forgetting anything important, then hurried to catch up to his long-legged friend. "You sign yerself out?"

"Yeah."

Bobby was puffing a little and trying not to show it. He was grateful when they reached an elevator and Dean pressed the ground-floor button. "Dean, what's this all about?"

Dean slanted a glance at him briefly. "Damned detective's askin' too many questions. And I been here way too long." Growing impatient, he turned for the stairs.

Bobby sighed as he followed. "Damn pig-headed, impatient Winchesters. I have a heart attack, it's your fault!"

Dean's cheeks flushed. "Sorry, Bobby." He turned back to the elevator just in time to watch it close. "Shit." He leaned against the wall, thumb once again depressing the 'down' button, and sighed. "Just really want to get back to a normal routine, ya know?"

And Bobby knew that wasn't it at all, but he was willing to play along. "Sure, kid. I know."

The elevator opened, and Dean found himself face-to-face with Dr. Kim.

Her eyes widened, and memory flooded him.

"Zellynnexia?"

Her brows dipped. "Excuse me? I'm Dr. Kim, remember? Nice to see you up and about." She glanced down at the bag in his hand. "You're leaving? Aren't you supposed to be escorted out in a wheelchair?"

Dean was staring, face flushed, fighting for equilibrium. "I...uh…"

The doctor glanced down at her watch. "Sorry, but I really need to get going. Were you waiting for this elevator?" She slid smoothly past them.

Dean stared after her, dumbstruck.

Bobby tugged on his sleeve. "Dean? Now's not the time, buddy. C'mon. We'll talk in the car."

Dean turned glazed eyes and an open mouth on Bobby.

The older man looped his arm through his young friend's and tugged him into the waiting elevator. "Looks like ya got yer memory back. Hope ya got more than porn to share with the group."

The elevator closed, carrying them towards a Winchester family reunion. "Yippee," Bobby muttered. "I can hardly wait."


	19. Chapter 19

**BREATHE CHAPTER 19**

* * *

Bobby leaned back against the front bumper of his truck, ankles crossed, to observe his family's reunion.

 _For all of their bickering, those two sure do love each other._

Sam had scampered across the parking lot like a gangling colt as soon as he saw Bobby's truck pull up. For his part, Dean had his door open before the wheels stopped rolling, and wrapped his slightly taller little brother up in a hug that lifted the delighted boy off of his feet.

 _They really shouldn't be apart._

John had come as far as the doorway, leaning against it, dimples deepening in a relaxed grin as he watched his boys. He straightened when Dean approached, smile fading, and Bobby read the uncertainty there.

Dean stopped within arm's length, and his queried "Dad?" begged for acceptance in a way that broke Bobby's heart even as it boiled his blood.

The Winchester patriarch pulled his eldest into a tight embrace, and the tears on his cheeks were understood by all to be forgiven as he had nearly lost this child to a Succubus.

A demon.

Dean had demanded vehemently that Bobby keep his secret so that neither John nor Sam would ever know that it was not the actions of a monster that had landed Dean in the hospital in the first place.

Not a supernatural one, anyway.

Dean's memory of the Succubus hadn't turned out to be very helpful. Once they'd all made it clear that they wanted the nudity and more graphic details omitted, there wasn't much to tell. Despite all three of the hunters showing him different articles of lore explaining that a Succubus could take on any form that it chose, Dean was convinced that _his_ was Dr. Kim, so they were starting with that.

Sam teased that it had actually been Dr. Garby that the Succubus had chosen to impersonate. John had been surprisingly tolerant of the pillow fight that ensued.

Pizza boxes and beer bottles decorated the hotel room. Plans had been laid, further research outlined.

Bobby couldn't think of any more excuses for staying. "To protect Dean from you" wasn't a reason that John Winchester would accept, graciously or otherwise.

As if sensing his unease, the man himself followed Bobby out to his truck. "Singer...Thanks."

Bobby sighed. He chewed his lip, pulled his cap off, raked a hand through his hair, tugged the cap back down.

Finally he looked up at his friend, a man he had mentored for the past sixteen years. "John, you know I love ya."

John shifted uncomfortably, dropping his chin to hide his eyes.

"But I love your boys more." He waited for the other hunter to look up. "If you ever raise a hand to either of them again, I will take that shotgun -" he stabbed a finger at the rack in the rear windshield of his old Ford- "and I will blow a hole in you big enough to park my truck in. You hear me, Winchester?"

John nodded, face solemn. "I hear you, Bobby. And I won't. I swear."

"Good," the man grunted, and he heaved himself into the driver's seat. "See ya in a week."

John stood, hands in his pockets, until the old hunter's taillights were swallowed by the night.

* * *

 _ **Author's Note**_

 _This is technically the last chapter of "Breathe". Not sure if I'll write more about the 'Cubi hunt or not; if I do, expect more smut than whump. Dean smut, Dean whump, both are manna to me. :)_

 _ **Warning: there is one more chapter, a prequel appearing where an epilogue should be. It contains graphic sexual scenes, so if you aren't into that, feel free to skip it. The story is complete without it.**_

 _Thank you for reading, following, favoriting, and of course reviewing. I've made some friends over this, and that is a bonus I had not anticipated!_

 _You are all such beautiful people. :)_


	20. PROLOGUE: GETTIN' LAID

**BREATHE PREQUEL: GETTIN' LAID**

 **Very dark; strong sexual content. Read at your own risk.**

 **This is where Dean was when Sammy disappeared.**

* * *

Dean smiled as he leaned back with his elbows behind him on the bar. Classic rock, the solid _thwock_ of a stick tapping a cue ball, ice rattling in glasses. Women in tight shirts and even tighter jeans, not afraid to catch your eye. Men with hard faces and assessing glances, ready with a challenge or a smile, take your pick. _My kinda place. My kinda people._

He'd taken a break from his babysitter duties, leaving Sam back at this week's home to cuddle up with his books. Kid had plans, some he shared with his big brother and some he didn't, but Dean knew. He knew more than Sam realized, and that - all of that: where Sam planned on going and what he was willing to give up to get there; what the boy was hiding from his family; what their dad would do about it - that had been rolling through Dean in an uneasy cloud for weeks, sometimes in his stomach, other times in his chest, or, like today, settling in the back of his skull to pound relentlessly.

And that was why he was here tonight, smiling out at the simple people with their simple pleasures that made him feel at home. Or made him forget about it, if he was lucky.

He pushed up, snagging his beer in two long, slender fingers, and made his way to one of the pool tables. He'd been watching, and a couple of the guys were good enough to be a challenge. He didn't need to hustle tonight. Tonight, he needed something he didn't bother trying to put words to, but he knew that a couple games of pool where it didn't matter if he lost would feed that vague hunger.

He stacked his coins on the table.

"You want a partner?" one of the men asked, and Dean answered with an easy smile.

"Sure. Name's Dean."

"Jeff."

They traded grips.

"Watcha playin' for?" Dean queried, not really caring, but knowing that it was part of the ritual.

"Just drinks."

"Loser buys," Dean drawled, and his grin had just the right touch of confidence in it. "I'm plannin' on getting wasted tonight. How 'bout you?"

So the dance began.

* * *

"Whaddaya think?" Three men stood around a high table, eyes on the one who had just joined the game.

"Mmmm…." a bearded man took a long pull on his beer. "Nice build on 'im. Moves well."

The newcomer bent over the table, tail of his shirt pulling up, denim stretching tight over flesh hardened by use, and the third man's face creased in a predatory smile. "Mmmm….I like that. Looks young, too."

A fourth man had walked up on them, pool cue in hand, and picked up a glass. "I don't know. He's big, got some scarring on his knuckles. Might not be so easy."

The first man who had spoken turned, shielding his hands from view of all but those in front of him, and flashed a small cellophane bag. "Chemical persuasion."

The friendly little bar turned dark.

* * *

"You as good at poker as you are at pool?"

Dean flashed a smile and a wink. "Course not."

Jeff laughed. "Well, I'm prob'ly gonna regret this - oughta make ya prove yerself first - but I got a private game startin' in a few minutes. Be a good place to make some quick cash, if a coupla sharps worked t'gether on it. You in?"

"Hell, yeah!" The cloud was gone, at least temporarily, and the night just kept getting better.

"Finish yer drink," a bearded man from their group admonished, holding Dean's tumbler out to him. "Ain't polite to leave it when we's the ones hadta buy it." He smiled when he said it, and Dean chuckled.

"Aw, Scott, you know they always taste better when ya earn 'em fair and square, right?" Dean winked good naturedly at the man before tipping his head back and emptying his glass. "So where's this game?" He tucked a hand in his pocket, fingering his car keys.

"We gotta take ya there."

Dean's enthusiasm cooled. "Can I just follow in my car? I can't stay long." _Gotta get back to Sammy._

"Private means not-quite-legal. Unfamiliar vehicle rolls up, they lock it down. It ain't far, though. Hell, you could walk it, come to that."

Dean shrugged. "Yeah, alright. Let's do this."

* * *

By the time they had settled into the car, Dean was feeling more than buzzed. "Shouldn'a finished tha' las' one," and he tipped over onto Jeff's shoulder.

"Easy there, cowboy," Jeff chuckled, tilting him back against the window. "We'll get ya a coffee when we get inside."

"M'kay," but he was having trouble staying awake, and Jeff's shoulder was more comfortable than the car's window.

* * *

One on each side they half carry, half drag him into the house. He tries to help, but his toes keep catching, and he can't keep his head up. A part of his mind picks at him, a concerned _What the fuck?_ , but that voice is quiet and very far away.

He rouses somewhat when the door closes behind them. Lights come on, and he blinks, trying to focus.

Living room, not too clean, mattresses instead of furniture. "'S a crack house?" and the men laugh, but he doesn't know why.

"You need to lie down." Jeff is there, and he sounds paternal. "You had a little too much whiskey, buddy."

Hands on his jacket, and he thinks there might be something wrong with that, and he tries to resist, but Jeff is there, and he sounds paternal. "We gotta get these off of you, get you comfortable so you can sleep it off."

And he lets them. He lets them take his jacket, and his flannel, and when he is swaying there in jeans and a t-shirt, Scott kneels. Dean feels someone tugging on his boots, and he mumbles "No," or he thinks he does, but Jeff is there, and he sounds paternal. "Cowboys don't really sleep with their boots on, Dean."

And then he's on the mattress, and there is a man on each arm, and Jeff is sitting on his pelvis, pinning him down with his hips. And Jeff bunches Dean's shirt in his hands, from hem to neck, and he pulls it up and forces it between Dean's teeth, and he is not paternal at all.

* * *

There are hands, so many hands, and Dean can't remember how many there should be, how many he came here with, but they are holding him and stroking him and pinching him and scratching him, and somehow his jeans are gone, cool air on skin that should not be bare, and he tries to fight but he can't, and he tries to think but he can't, and now there is heat and wet, too, and the sharp nip of teeth and slick glide of tongues and before he can wonder if this is a vampire nest, someone is devouring him, soft-moist-sucking warmth, and his back arches as he groans, and it shouldn't feel so good, he can't remember why but it shouldn't, and he tries not to let it, but it does, and the hands and mouths move faster, they are everywhere, and his skin is tingling and his heart is racing and he feels the build and he knows it's coming and it shouldn't and it is and he can't and it's wrong and the wet sucking heat is filling his head and a "No" erupts from his lips as his torso folds and his orgasm erupts and

..tears

...cringe

...down

...his

...face.

Male laughter rides his shuddering culmination.

They turn him over.

The fog is lifting and he knows what's next and this "No!" is panicked, louder, and he arches his back, bucks his hips, desperate to escape, and a cruel hand jerks his head back, replacing the cloth that he had somehow rid himself of, fisting it at the back of his skull, pulling it tight, keeping his spine bowed painfully, and through the blur of tears and lash-shuttered eyes he sees Jeff kneeling on one of his bare arms and Jeff's face is feral and hands circle Dean's ankles like talons and they pull and he fights and something tears in his leg and he panics and there is weight on his thighs and he struggles and the men hold tighter and he feels the pressure and he knows what's coming even though he's never felt it before and his mind screams and he panics and the man above him pulls harder on the bridle of Dean's gag while he thrusts forward victoriously

And Dean screams, the sound desperate and primal and raw even through thick cloth.

It's fire and tearing and he's never felt agony like this before, pain, plenty of pain, but not like this, and something slams into his guts and vomit erupts in his throat and it fills his nose and saturates the cotton in his mouth and the cloud is back and it is growing and his body goes limp and the tearing and the pummeling increase and his body is jerking and a button on the mattress is biting into his skin and

..the world

...goes

...black.

* * *

He awakens in fear. He doesn't know why, and years of training immediately kick in, forcing him into stillness though his instincts scream at him to run.

He listens, straining into the silence. Distant sounds: birds, traffic. Nothing close.

He realizes that he is nude.

Feels dried _something_ on his skin, making him itch.

The memory of his night returns in a flood, and he frantically pulls his face to the edge of the mattress, stomach contracting violently, mucus and bile erupting forcefully.

The convulsion ends, and he holds his breath, waiting.

No sound.

No movement.

No _men_.

He sags back into the soiled mattress, overwhelmed with the scents of mildew and sweat and vomit and semen, and he cries, a soundless despair.

 _...How could I...?_

 _...Why_ couldn't _I...?_

 _...What made them choose_ me _?_

After a time, he remembers Sammy, and he realizes that he has to move. He doesn't want to. Doesn't want to face this new day, doesn't want to try to go on from here.

Doesn't know how.

Isn't sure he can.

He pushes up, refusing to look at himself.

Still wearing the t-shirt, front soaked with spit and snot and bile, clammy and foul…but covering him.

The only thing that is covering him.

He gatheres his clothes, gets shakily to his feet.

His ass aches, and he winces at the feel of something wet slicking down the inside of his thigh.

He stumbles getting off of the mattress, leans hard against a wall as he slides down the hallway.

 _Bathroom_.

The water works, and he lets it run until steam roils, then steps into the shower.

Fire cleanses, but water can, too, if it's hot enough.

His tears are a cold contrast.

* * *

T-shirt discarded on the floor of the dirty bathroom, otherwise dressed. Outside. Looks left, looks right. Miraculously, he can see his car, half a block away, parked on the street.

No keys in his pocket.

Walking hurts, a throbbing burn with sharp bites of tearing pain where there should never be any pain.

He reaches the car, his sanctuary, and sees that the keys are in the ignition. _Bastards. Someone could've stolen her._

The seed of anger finally germinates.

 _Door never seemed this heavy before_ , but he gets it open, sits gingerly, wincing as he slides into place.

Feels the wetness, knows it will seep through, but he's had experience getting blood out of leather.

The drive to the hotel is long and painful, but it's a school day for Sammy, and he'll be gone already, and Dean will have a few hours to clean his Baby.

To shower again.

To figure out who he is now, and whether he is worth salvaging. And if it turns out he's not? Well...Sammy is at school, and Dean's pistol is a sanctuary, too.


End file.
